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Cont>enset> Classics 

THE HISTORY OF 

TOM JONES 

A FOUNDLING 


HENRY FIELDING, Esq. 


ABRIDGMENT 

BY 


BURTON E. STEVENSON 



NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 
1904 




f UBBAhYcf CONGRESS 
Two Copies Rcciiivoii 

NOV 1 1904 

Copyrifilti 




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CLASS 6c / XACi jji 



sr'. 


Copyright, 1904 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 


Pnllished October , iQOi 







PREFACE. 


AT/’RITERS of fiction, as well as students of literature, 
“ y have come pretty generally to agree that the principal 
business of a novel is to tell a story. Certainly, the reading 
public believes so. Modern life, together with frills and 
furbelows, has been stripped of verbiage; the novelist has 
learned that, if he would gain a hearing, his story must stand 
out clear-cut and nervous, as a runner for a race. So, while 
the classic “ three-decker ” stays untouched on the shelf and 
unbought on the bargain-counter, the novel written in the spirit 
of the times runs into its hundred thousands. 

It is needless to argue whether this tendency be good or bad : 
that it exists cannot be questioned, and the classics of literature, 
which “ everybody talks about but nobody reads,” grow dustier 
every day. Fielding’s “ Tom Jones ” ranks with the best of 
these — amusing, absorbing, vibrant with life; but, alas! cover- 
ing nearly twelve hundred closely-printed pages — every one of 
them, perhaps, a delight to the connoisseur, but appalling in 
their very multiplicity to the average reader. Plainly, if “ Tom 
Jones ” is to appeal to him, the story must be freed from the 
weight of words which keeps it from running swiftly. 

Of the ethics of such condensation, much may be said on 
either side. It is a subject singularly tempting to the senti- 
mentalist. Really, an abridgment is only the assumption by 
an editor of a task which most readers try, more or less suc- 
cessfully, to accomplish for themselves. Very few actually 
read every line of a long novel ; and, no doubt, most of us will 
agree with Mr. Balfour that it is wiser to read for pleasure 
than for conscience sake. 

This abridgment has followed, in the main, the recognized 
lines of criticism. The principal characters — Jones, Western, 
Mrs. Western, Sophia, Partridge, Allworthy, Lady Bellaston 
— and even most of the minor ones, remain full-length, as they 
were drawn, no detail has been consciously omitted which assists 


iv 


PREFACE. 


the action of the story, and care has been taken to preserve 
untouched Fielding’s inimitable style. A re-arrangement of 
the chapters has, of course, been necessary, as well as the in- 
sertion, here and there, of a connecting word or phrase. The 
paragraphing has also been done in the modern fashion. 

This edition does not for an instant nor in any way profess 
to be an improvement of the story as originally written; it is 
merely an attempt to make more popular a novel which is, per- 
haps, the greatest in the English language, and with which, 
certainly, every mature English reader ought to be familiar. 
Whether it should be read in an edition such as this or in a 
complete one, is not in question; but, rather, whether it shall 
be read in a careful condensation or not at all. 


B. E. S. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, 

A FOUNDLING. 

The introduction to the work, or bill of fare to the feast. 

N author ought to consider himself, not as a gentleman who 
gives a private or eleemosynary treat, but rather as one 
who keeps a public ordinary, at which all persons are wel- 
come for their money. In the former case, it is well known that 
the entertainer provides what fare he pleases; and though this 
should be very indifferent, and utterly disagreeable to the taste 
of his company, they must not find any fault; nay, on the con- 
trary, good breeding forces them outwardly to approve and to 
commend whatever is set before them. Now the contrary of this 
happens to the master of an ordinary. Men who pay for what 
they eat will insist on gratifying their palates, however nice and 
whimsical these may prove; and if everything is not agreeable 
to their taste, will challenge a right to censure, to abuse, and to 
d — n their dinner without controul. 

To prevent, therefore, giving offence to their customers by 
any such disappointment, it hath been usual with the honest 
and well-meaning host to provide a bill of fare which all per- 
sons may peruse at their first entrance into the house; and hav- 
ing thence acquainted themselves with the entertainment which 
they may expect, may either stay and regale with what is pro- 
vided for them, or may depart to some other ordinary better 
accommodated to their taste. 

As we do not disdain to borrow wit or wisdom from any man 
who is capable of lending us either, we have condescended to 
take a hint from these honest victuallers. The provision, then, 
which we have here made is no other than Human Nature. 
Nor do I fear that my sensible reader, though most luxurious in 
his taste, will start, cavil, or be offended, because I have named 
but one article. The tortoise — as the alderman of Bristol, well 
learned in eating, knows by much experience — besides the de- 
licious calipash and calipee, contains many different kinds of 


2 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


food ; nor can the learned reader be ignorant, that in human na- 
ture, though here collected under one general name, is such 
prodigious variety, that a cook will have sooner gone through 
all the several species of animal and vegetable food in the world, 
than an author will be able to exhaust so extensive a subject. 

An objection may perhaps be apprehended from the more deli- 
cate, that this dish is too common and vulgar; for what else is 
the subject of all the romances, novels, plays, and poems, with 
which the stalls abound? Many exquisite viands might be re- 
jected by the epicure, if it was a sufficient cause for his contemn- 
ing of them as common and vulgar, that something was to be 
found in the most paltry alleys under the same name. In re- 
ality, true nature is as difficult to be met with in authors, as the 
Bayonne ham, or Bologna sausage, is to be found in the shops. 

But the whole, to continue the same metaphor, consists in the 
cookery of the author; for, as Mr Pope tells us — 

“True wit is nature to advantage drest; 

What oft was thought, but ne’er so well exprest.” 

X The same animal which hath the honour to have some part 
of his flesh eaten at the table of a duke, may perhaps be degraded 
in another part, and some of his limbs gibbeted, as it were, in the 
vilest stall in towruj Where, then, lies the difference between 
the food of the nobleman and the porter, if both are at dinner 
on the same ox or calf, but in the seasoning, the dressing, the 
garnishing, and the setting forth? Hence the one provokes 
and incites the most languid appetite, and the other turns and 
palls that which is the sharpest and keenest. 

In like manner, the excellence of the mental entertainment 
consists less in the subject than in the author’s skill in well dress- 
ing it up. How pleased, therefore, will the reader be to find 
that we have, in the following work, adhered closely to one of 
the highest principles of the best cook which the present age, or 
perhaps that of Heliogabalus, hath produced. This great man, 
as is well known to all lovers of polite eating, begins at first by 
setting plain things before his hungry guests, rising afterwards 
by degrees as their stomachs may be supposed to decrease, to the 
very quintessence of sauce and spices. In like manner, we shall 
represent human nature at first to the keen appetite of our 
reader, in that more plain and simple manner in which it is 
found in the country, and shall hereafter hash and ragoo it with 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


3 


all the high French and Italian seasoning of affectation and vice 
which courts and cities afford. By these means, we doubt not 
but our reader may be rendered desirous to read on for ever, as 
the great person just above-mentioned is supposed to have made 
some persons eat. 

Having premised thus much, we will now detain those who 
like our bill of fare no longer from their diet, and shall proceed 
directly to serve up the first course of our history for their en- 
tertainment. 


CHAPTER I. 


A short description of squire Allworthy , and the odd accident 
which befel him at his return home from London. 

J N that part of the western division of this kingdom which is 
commonly called Somersetshire, there lately lived, and per- 
haps lives still, a gentleman whose name was Allworthy, and 
who might well be called the favourite of both nature and for- 
tune, for both of these seem to have contended which should 
bless and enrich him most. From the former of these, he de- 
rived an agreeable person, a sound constitution, a solid under- 
standing, and a benevolent heart; by the latter he was decreed 
to the inheritance of one of the largest estates in the county. 

This gentleman had in his youth married a very worthy and 
beautiful woman, of whom he had been extremely fond : by her 
he had three children, all of whom died in their infancy. He 
had likewise had the misfortune of burying this beloved wife 
herself, about five years before the time in which this history 
chuses to set out. 

He now lived, for the most part, retired in the country, 
with one sister, for whom he had a very tender affection. This 
lady was now somewhat past the age of thirty, an sera at which, 
in the opinion of the malicious, the title of old maid may with no 
impropriety be assumed. She was of that species of women 
whom you commend rather for good qualities than beauty, and 
who are generally called, by their own sex, very good sort of 
women 1 — as good a sort of woman, madam, as you would wish 
to know. Indeed, she was so far from regretting want of 
beauty, that she never mentioned that perfection, if it can be 
called one, without contempt; and would often thank God she 
was not as handsome as Miss Such-a-one, whom perhaps beauty 
had led into errors which she might have otherwise avoided. 
Miss. Bridget All worthy (for that was the name of this lady) 
very rightly conceived the charms of person in a woman to be 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


5 


no better than snares for herself, as well as for others; and yet 
so discreet was she in her conduct, that her prudence was as 
much on the guard as if she had all the snares to apprehend 
which were ever laid for her whole sex. 

Mr All worthy had been absent a full quarter of a year in 
London, on some very particular business, though I know not 
what it was; but judge of its importance by its having detained 
him so long from home, whence he had not been absent a month 
at a time during the space of many years. He came to his house 
very late in the evening, and after a short supper with his sister, 
retired much fatigued to his chamber. Here, having spent some 
minutes on his knees — a custom which he never broke through 
on any account — he was preparing to step into bed, when, upon 
opening the clothes, to his great surprize he beheld an infant, 
wrapt up in some coarse linen, in a sweet and profound sleep, be- 
tween his sheets. He stood some time lost in astonishment at this 
sight ; but, as good nature had always the ascendant in his mind, 
he soon began to be touched with sentiments of compassion for 
the little wretch before him. He then rang his bell, and ordered 
an elderly woman-servant to rise immediately, and come to him ; 
and in the meantime was so eager in contemplating the beauty 
of innocence, appearing in those lively colours with which 
infancy and sleep always display it, that his thoughts were too 
much engaged to reflect that he was in his shirt when the 
matron came in. 

She therefore no sooner opened the door, and saw her master 
standing by the bedside in his shirt, with a candle in his hand, 
than she started back in a most terrible fright, and might per- 
haps have swooned away, had he not now recollected his being 
undrest, and put an end to her terrors by desiring her to stay 
without the door till he had thrown some clothes over his back, 
and was become incapable of shocking the pure eyes of Mrs 
Deborah Wilkins, who, though in the fifty-second year of her 
age, vowed she had never beheld a man without his coat. 

When Mrs Deborah returned into the room, and was ac- 
quainted by her master with the finding the little infant, her 
consternation was rather greater than his had been; nor could 
she refrain from crying out, with great horror of accent as well 
as look, “My good sir! what’s to be done?” 

Mr Allworthy answered, she must take care of the child 


6 


THE HISTORY OF TOZI JONES. 


that evening, and in the morning he would give orders to pro- 
vide it a nurse. 

“Yes, sir,” says she; “and I hope your worship will send out 
your warrant to take up the hussy its mother, for she must be 
one of the neighbourhood ; and I should be glad to see her com- 
mitted to Bridewell, and whipt at the cart’s tail. Indeed, such 
wicked sluts cannot be too severely punished. I’ll warrant ’tis 
not her first, by her impudence in laying it to your worship.” 

“In laying it to me, Deborah!” answered Allworthy: “I 
can’t think she hath any such design. I suppose she hath only 
taken this method to provide for her child ; and truly I am glad 
she hath not done worse.” 

“I don’t know what is worse,” cries Deborah, “than for 
such wicked strumpets to lay their sins at honest men’s doors; 
and though your worship knows your own innocence, yet the 
world is censorious; and it hath been many an honest man’s 
hap to pass for the father of children he never begot; and if 
your worship should provide for the child, it may make the 
people the apter to believe; besides, why should your worship 
provide for what the parish is obliged to maintain? For my 
own part, if it was an honest man’s child, indeed — but for my 
own part, it goes against me to touch these misbegotten 
wretches, whom I don’t look upon as my fellow-creatures. 
Faugh! how it stinks! It doth not smell like a Christian. If 
I might be so bold to give my advice, I would have it put in a 
basket, and sent out and laid at the churchwarden’s door. It is 
a good night, only a little rainy and windy; and if it was well 
wrapt up, and put in a warm basket, it is two to one but it lives 
till it is found in the morning. But if it should not, we have 
discharged our duty in taking proper care of it ; and it is, per- 
haps, better for such creatures to die in a state of innocence, 
than to grow up and imitate their mothers; for nothing better 
can be expected of them.” 

There were some strokes in this speech which perhaps would 
have offended Mr Allworthy, had he strictly attended to it; 
but he had now got one of his fingers into the infant’s hand, 
which, by its gentle pressure, seeming to implore his assistance, 
had certainly out-pleaded the eloquence of Mrs Deborah, had it 
been ten times greater than it was. He now gave Mrs Deborah 
positive orders to take the child to her own bed, and to call up 
a maid-servant to provide it pap, and other things, against it 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


7 


waked. He likewise ordered that proper clothes should be 
procured for it early in the morning, and that it should be 
brought to himself as soon as he was stirring. 

Such was the discernment of Mrs Wilkins, and such the re- 
spect she bore her master, under whom she enjoyed a most ex- 
cellent place, that her scruples gave way to his peremptory com- 
mands; and she took the child under her arms, without any ap- 
parent disgust at the illegality of its birth ; and declaring it was 
a sweet little infant, walked off with it to her own chamber. 

Allworthy here betook himself to those pleasing slumbers 
which a heart that hungers after goodness is apt to enjoy when 
thoroughly satisfied. As these are possibly sweeter than what 
are occasioned by any other hearty meal, I should take more 
pains to display them to the reader, if I knew any air to recom- 
mend him to for the procuring such an appetite. 


CHAPTER II. 


The great condescension of Miss Bridget Allworthy, with a 
short account of Jenny Jones . 

^HE Gothic style of building could produce nothing nobler 
than Mr Allworthy’s house. There was an air of 
grandeur in it that struck you with awe, and rivalled the 
beauties of the best Grecian architecture; and it was as com- 
modious within as venerable without. 

It stood on the south-east side of a hill, but nearer the bottom 
than the top of it, so as to be sheltered from the 'north-east by a 
grove of old oaks which rose above it in a gradual ascent of near 
half a mile, and yet high enough to enjoy a most charming pros- 
pect of the valley beneath. 

It was now the middle of May, and the morning was re- 
markably serene, when Mr All worthy walked forth on the ter- 
race, where the dawn opened every minute that lovely prospect 
to his eye; and now having sent forth streams of light, which 
ascended the blue firmament before him, as harbingers preced- 
ing his pomp, in the full blaze of his majesty rose the sun, than 
which one object alone in this lower creation could be more 
glorious, and that Mr All worthy himself presented — a human 
being replete with benevolence, meditating in what manner he 
might render himself most acceptable to his Creator, by doing 
most good to his creatures. 

Reader, take care. I have unadvisedly led thee to the top of 
as high a hill as Mr All worthy’s, and how to get thee down 
without breaking thy neck, I do not well know. However, let 
us e’en venture to slide down together; for Miss Bridget rings 
her bell, and Mr Allworthy is summoned to breakfast, where I 
must attend, and, if you please, shall be glad of your company. 

The usual compliments having past between Mr Allwort'hy 
and Miss Bridget, and the tea being poured out, he sum- 
moned Mrs Wilkins, and told his sister he had a present for her, 
for which she thanked him — imagining, I suppose, it had been a 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


9 


gown, or some ornament for her person. Indeed, he very often 
made her such presents; and she, in complacence to him, spent 
much time in adorning herself. I say in complacence to him, 
because she always exprest the greatest contempt for dress, and 
for those ladies who made it their study. 

But if such was her expectation, how was she disappointed 
when Mrs Wilkins, according to the order she had received 
from her master, produced the little infant ! Great surprizes, as 
hath been 1 observed, are apt to be silent; and so was Miss 
Bridget, till her brother began, and told her the whole story, 
which, as the reader knows it already, we shall not repeat. 

Miss Bridget had always exprest so great a regard for what 
the ladies are pleased to call virtue, and had herself maintained 
such a severity of character, that it was expected, especially by 
Wilkins, that she would have vented much bitterness on this 
occasion, and would have voted for sending the child, as a kind 
of noxious animal, immediately out of the house; but, on the 
contrary, she rather took the good-natured side of the question, 
intimated some compassion for the helpless little creature, and 
commended her brother’s charity in what he had done. 

However, what she withheld from the infant, she bestowed 
with the utmost profuseness on the poor unknown mother, whom 
she called a wanton hussy, with every other appellation with 
which the tongue of virtue never fails to lash those who bring 
a disgrace on the sex. 

A consultation was now entered into how to proceed in 
order to discover the mother. A scrutiny was first made into 
the characters of the female servants of the house, who w r ere 
all acquitted by Mrs Wilkins, and wfith apparent merit; for she 
had collected them herself, and perhaps it would be difficult to 
find such another set of scarecrows. 

The next step was to examine among the inhabitants of the 
parish ; and this was referred to Mrs Wilkins, who was to en- 
quire with all imaginable diligence, and to make her report in 
the afternoon. 

Matters being thus settled, Mr Allworthy withdrew to his 
study, as was his custom, and left the child to his sister, who, 
at his desire, had undertaken the care of it. 

When her master was departed, Mrs Deborah stood silent, 
expecting her cue from Miss Bridget; for as to what 
had past before her master, the prudent housekeeper by 


10 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


no means relied upon it, as she had often known the 
sentiments of the lady in her brother’s absence to differ greatly 
from those which she had expressed in his presence. Miss Brid- 
get did not, however, suffer her to continue long in this doubtful 
situation ; for having looked some time earnestly at the child, as 
it lay asleep in the lap of Mrs Deborah, the good lady could 
not forbear giving it a hearty kiss, at the same time declaring 
herself wonderfully pleased with its beauty and innocence. Mrs 
Deborah no sooner observed this than she fell to squeezing and 
kissing, with as great raptures as sometimes inspire the sage 
dame of forty and five towards a youthful and vigorous bride- 
groom, crying out, in a shrill voice, “O, the dear little creature! 
— The dear, sweet, pretty creature! Well, I vow it is as fine 
a boy as ever was seen!” 

These exclamations continued till they were interrupted by 
the lady, who now proceeded to execute the commission given 
her by her brother, and gave orders for providing all necessaries 
for the child, appointing a very good room in the house for his 
nursery. Her orders were indeed so liberal, that, had it been 
a child of her own, she could not have exceeded them ; but, lest 
the virtuous reader may condemn her for . showing too great 
regard to a base-born infant, to which all charity is condemned 
by law as irreligious, we think proper to observe that she con- 
cluded the whole with saying, since it was her brother’s whim 
to adopt the little brat, she supposed little master must be treated 
with great tenderness. For her part, she could not help thinking 
it was an encouragement to vice; but that she knew too much 
of the obstinacy of mankind to oppose any of their ridiculous 
humours. 

Mrs Deborah, having disposed of the child according to the 
will of her master, prepared to visit those habitations which 
were supposed to conceal its mother. 

Not otherwise than when^ a kite, tremendous bird, is beheld 
by the feathered generation soaring aloft, and hovering over 
their heads, the amorous dove, and every innocent little bird, 
spread wide the alarm, and fly trembling to their hiding-places. 

•So when the approach of Mrs Deborah was proclaimed 
through the street, all the inhabitants ran trembling into their 
houses, each matron dreading lest the visit should fall to her 
lot. 

Whenever Mrs Deborah had occasion to exert any extra- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


ii 


ordinary condescension to Miss Bridget, and by that means had 
a little soured her natural disposition, it was usual with her to 
walk forth among these people, in order to refine her temper, 
by venting, and, as it were, purging off all ill humours; on 
which account she was by no means a welcome visitant: to say 
the truth, she was universally dreaded and hated by them all. 

On her arrival in this place, she went immediately to the 
habitation of an elderly matron; to whom, as this matron had 
the good fortune to resemble herself in the comeliness of her 
person, as well as in her age, she had generally been more favour- 
able than to any of the rest. To this woman she imparted what 
had happened, and the design upon which she was come thither 
that morning. These two began presently to scrutinize the 
characters of the several young girls who lived in any of those 
houses, and at last fixed their strongest suspicion on one Jenny 
Jones, who, they both agreed, was the likeliest person to have 
committed this fact. 

This Jenny Jones was no very comely girl, either in her face 
or person; but nature had somewhat compensated the want of 
beauty with what is generally more esteemed by those ladies 
whose judgment is arrived at years of perfect maturity, for she 
had given her a very uncommon share of understanding. This 
gift Jenny had a good deal improved by erudition. She had 
lived several years a servant with a schoolmaster, who, dis- 
covering a great quickness of parts in the girl, and an extra- 
ordinary desire of learning — for every leisure hour she was al- 
ways found reading in the books of the scholars — had the good- 
nature, or folly — just as the reader pleases to call it — to instruct 
her so far, that she obtained a competent skill in the Latin lan- 
guage, and was, perhaps, as good a scholar as most of the young 
men of quality of the age. This advantage, however, like most 
others of an extraordinary kind, was attended with some small 
inconveniences: for as it is not to be wondered at, that a young 
woman so well accomplished should have little relish for the 
society of those whom fortune had made her equals, but whom 
education had rendered so much her inferiors; so is it matter of 
no greater astonishment, that this superiority in Jenny, together 
with that behaviour which is its certain consequence, should 
produce among the rest some little envy and ill-will towards 
her. 

Their envy did not, however, display itself openly, till poor 


12 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Jenny, to the surprize of everybody, and to the vexation of all 
the young women in these parts, had publickly shone forth on a 
Sunday in a new silk gown, with a laced cap, and other proper 
appendages to these. 

The flame, which had before lain in embryo, now burst forth. 
Jenny had, by her learning, increased her own pride, which none 
of her neighbours were kind enough to feed with the honour she 
seemed to demand; and now, instead of respect and adoration, 
she gained nothing but hatred and abuse by her finery. The 
whole parish declared she could not come honestly by such 
things ; and parents, instead of wishing their daughters the same, 
felicitated themselves that their children had them not. 

Hence, perhaps, it was, that the good woman first mentioned 
the name of this poor girl to Mrs Wilkins; but there was an- 
other circumstance that confirmed the latter in her suspicion; 
for Jenny had lately been often at Mr Allworthy’s house. She 
had officiated as nurse to Miss Bridget, in a violent fit of illness, 
and had sat up many nights with that lady; besides which, she 
had been seen there the very day before Mr All worthy’s return, 
by Mrs Wilkins herself, though that sagacious person had not 
at first conceived any suspicion of her on that account. 

Jenny was now summoned to appear in person before Mrs 
Deborah, which she immediately did. When Mrs Deborah, 
putting on the gravity of a judge, with somewhat more than his 
austerity, began an oration with the words, “You audacious 
strumpet!” in which she proceeded rather to pass sentence on 
the prisoner than to accuse her. 

Though Mrs Deborah was fully satisfied of the guilt of Jenny, 
from the reasons above shown, it is possible Mr Allworthy 
might have required some stronger evidence to have convicted 
her ; but she saved her accusers any such trouble, by freely con- 
fessing the whole fact with which she was charged. 

This confession, though delivered rather in terms of contri- 
tion, as it appeared, did not at all mollify Mrs Deborah, who 
now pronounced a second judgment against her, in more op- 
probrious language than before; nor had it any better success 
with the bystanders, who were now grown very numerous. 
Many of them cried out, they thought what madam’s silk gown 
would end in ; others spoke sarcastically of her learning. Not a 
single female was present but found some means of expressing 
her abhorrence of poor Jenny, who bore all very quietly, except 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


13 


the malice of one woman, who reflected upon her person, and 
tossing up her nose, said, “The man must have a good stomach 
who would give silk gowns for such sort of trumpery!” Jenny 
replied to this with a bitterness which might have surprized a 
judicious person, who had observed the tranquillity with which 
she bore all the affronts to her chastity; but her patience was 
perhaps tired out, for this is a virtue which is very apt to be 
fatigued by exercise. 

Mrs Deborah having succeeded beyond her hopes in her in- 
quiry, returned with much triumph, and, at the appointed hour, 
made a faithful report to Mr Allworthy, who was much sur- 
prized at the relation; for he had heard of the extraordinary 
parts and improvements of this girl, whom he intended to have 
given in marriage, together with a small living, to a neighbour- 
ing curate. 

Miss Bridget blessed herself, and said, for her part, she should 
never hereafter entertain a good opinion of any woman. For 
Jenny before this had the happiness of being much in her good 
graces also. 

The prudent housekeeper was again dispatched to bring the 
unhappy culprit before Mr All worthy, in order, not as it was 
hoped by some, and expected by all, to be sent to the house of 
correction, but to receive wholesome admonition and reproof. 

When Jenny appeared, Mr Allworthy took her into his study, 
and spoke to her as follows: 

“You know, child, it is in my power as a magistrate, 
to punish you very rigorously for what you have done ; and you 
will, perhaps, be the more apt to fear I should execute that 
power, because you have in a manner laid your sins at my door. 

“But, perhaps, this is one reason which hath determined me 
to act in a milder manner with you ; for, as no private resentment 
should ever influence a magistrate, I will be so far from consider- 
ing your having deposited the infant in my house as an aggrava- 
tion of your offence, that I will suppose, in your favour, this to 
have proceeded from a natural affection to your child, since you 
might have some hopes to see it thus better provided for than was 
in the power of yourself, or its wicked father, to provide for it. 
It is the other part of your offence, therefore, upon which I 
intend to admonish you, I mean the violation of your chastity; 
— a crime, however lightly it may be treated by debauched per^ 


x 4 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


) 


sons, very heinous in itself, and very dreadful in its conse- 
quences. 

“The heinous nature of this offence must be sufficiently 
apparent to every Christian, inasmuch as it is committed in 
defiance of the laws of our religion, and of the express com- 
mands of Him who founded that religion. 

“And here its consequences may well be argued to be dread- 
ful; for what can be more so, than to incur the divine dis- 
pleasure, by the breach of the divine commands; and that in 
an instance against which the highest vengeance is specifically 
denounced ? 

“But these things, though too little, I am afraid, regarded, 
are so plain, that mankind, however they may want to be re- 
minded, can never need information on this head. A hint, 
therefore, to awaken your sense of this matter, shall suffice ; 
for I would inspire you with repentance, and not drive you to 
desperation. 

“There are other consequences, not indeed so dreadful or 
replete with horror as this ; and yet such, as, if attentively con- 
sidered, must, one would think, deter all of your sex at least 
from the commission of this crime. 

“For by it you are rendered infamous, and driven, like lepers 
of old, out of society; at least, from the society of all but 
wicked and reprobate persons ; for no others will associate with 
you. 

“If you have fortunes, you are hereby rendered incapable 
of enjoying them; if you have none, you are disabled from ac- 
quiring any, nay almost of procuring your sustenance; for no 
persons of character will receive you into their houses. Thus 
you are often driven by necessity itself into a state of shame 
and misery, which unavoidably ends in the destruction of both 
body and soul. 

“Now in what light, but that of an enemy, can a reasonable 
woman regard the man who solicits her to entail on herself 
all the misery I have described to you, and who would purchase 
to himself a short, trivial, contemptible pleasure, so greatly at 
her expense! For, by the laws of custom, the whole shame, 
with all its dreadful consequences, falls intirely upon her. 
Can love, which always seeks the good of its object, attempt 
to betray a woman into a bargain where she is so greatly to be 
the loser? If such corrupter, therefore, should have the im- 


JM 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


15 


pudence to pretend a real affection for her, ought not the 
woman to regard him not only as an enemy, but as the worst of 
all enemies, a false, designing, treacherous, pretended friend, 
who intends not only to debauch her body, but her understand- 
ing at the same time?” 

Here Jenny expressing great concern, Allworthy paused a 
moment, and then proceeded: “I have talked thus to you, 
I child, not to insult you for what is past and irrevocable, but to 
| caution and strengthen you for the future. Nor should I have 
/ taken this trouble, but fronT'some opinion of your good sense, 
notwithstanding the dreadful slip you have made; and from 
some hopes of your hearty repentance, which are founded on 
the openness and sincerity of your confession. If these do not 
deceive me, I will take care to convey you from this scene of 
your shame, where you shall, by. being unknown, avoid the 
punishment which, as I have said, is allotted to your crime in 
this world ; and I hope, by repentance, you will avoid the much 
heavier sentence denounced against it in the other. Be a good 
girl the rest of your days, and want shall be no motive to your 
going astray; and, believe me, there is more pleasure, even in 
this world, in an innocent and virtuous life, than in one de- 
bauched and vicious. 

“As to your child, let no thoughts concerning it molest you; 
I will provide for it in a better manner than you can ever hope. 
And now nothing remains but that you inform me who was 
the wicked man that seduced you; for my anger against him 
will be much greater than you have experienced on this oc- 
casion.” 

Jenny now lifted her eyes from the ground, and with a 
modest look and decent voice thus began: — 

“To know you, sir, and not to love your goodness, would be 
an argument of total want of sense or goodness in any one. 
In me it would amount to the highest ingratitude, not to feel, in 
the most sensible manner, the great degree of goodness you 
have been pleased to exert on this occasion. As to my concern 
for what is past, I know you will spare my blushes the repeti- 
tion. My future conduct will much better declare my senti- 
ments than any professions I can now make. I thank you, sir, 
heartily, for your intended kindness to my poor helpless child: 
he is innocent, and I hope will live to be grateful for all the 
favours you shall show him. But now, sir, I must on my 


i6 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


knees entreat you not to persist in asking me to declare the 
father of my infant. I promise you faithfully you shall one 
day know; but I am under the most solemn ties and engage- 
ments of honour, as well as the most religious vows and pro- 
testations, to conceal his name at this time. And I know you 
too well, to think you would desire I should sacrifice either my 
honour or my religion.” 

Mr All worthy, whom the least mention of those sacred 
words was sufficient to stagger, hesitated a moment before he 
replied, and then told her, she had done wrong to enter into 
such engagements to a villain; but since she had, he could not 
insist on her breaking them. He therefore dismissed her with 
assurances that he would very soon remove her out of the reach 
of that obloquy she had incurred; concluding with some addi- 
tional documents, in which he recommended repentance, say- 
ing, “Consider, child, there is one still to reconcile yourself to, 
whose favour is of much greater importance to you than 
mine.” 

Jenny returned home well pleased with the reception she had 
met with from Mr Allworthy, whose indulgence to her she in- 
dustriously made public ; partly perhaps as a sacrifice to her own 
pride, and partly from the more prudent motive of reconciling 
her neighbours to her, and silencing their clamours. 

But though this latter view, if she indeed had it, may ap- 
pear reasonable enough, yet the event did not answer her ex- 
pectation; for when she was convened before the justice, and 
it was universally apprehended that the house of correction 
would have been her fate, though some of the young women 
cried out “It was good enough for her,” and diverted them- 
selves with the thoughts of her beating hemp in a silk gown; 
yet there were many others who began to pity her condition: 
but when it was known in what manner Mr Allworthy had 
behaved, the tide turned against her. One said, “I’ll assure you, 
madam hath had good luck.” A second cried, “See what it is 
to be a favourite !” A third, “Ay, this comes of her learning.” 
Every person made some malicious comment or other on the 
occasion, and reflected on the partiality of the justice. 

Jenny was, however, by the care and goodness of Mr All- 
worthy, soon removed out of the reach of reproach ; when 
malice being no longer able to vent its rage on her, began to 
seek another object of its bitterness, and this was no less than 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


17 

Mr Allworthy, himself; for a whisper soon went abroad that 
he himself was the father of the foundling child. 

This supposition so well reconciled his conduct to the general 
opinion, that it met with universal assent; and the outcry 
against his lenity soon began to take another turn, and was 
changed into an invective against his cruelty to the poor girl. 
Very grave and good women exclaimed against men who begot 
children, and then disowned them. Nor were there wanting 
some, who, after the departure of Jenny, insinuated that she 
was spirited away with a design too black to be mentioned, and 
who gave frequent hints that a legal inquiry ought to be made 
into the whole matter, and that some people should be forced 
to produce the girl. 

These calumnies might have probably produced ill conse- 
quences, at the least might have occasioned some trouble, to a 
person of a more doubtful and suspicious character than Mr All- 
worthy was blessed with; but in his case they had no such 
effect; and, being heartily despised by him, they served only to 
afford an innocent amusement to the good gossips of the neigh- 
bourhood. 


CHAPTER III. 


: The hospitality of Allivorthy ; with a short sketch of the char- 
acters of two brothers, a doctor and a captain, who were 
entertained by that gentleman. 

EITHER Mr Allworthy’s house, nor his heart, were shut 
against any part of mankind, but they were both more 
particularly open to men of merit. To say the truth, this was 
the only house in the kingdom where you were sure to gain a 
dinner by deserving it. 

Above all others, men of genius and learning shared the 
principal place in his favour ; and among others of this kind was 
Dr Blifil, a gentleman who had the misfortune of losing the 
advantage of great talents by the obstinacy of a father, who 
would breed him to a profession he disliked. In obedience to 
this obstinacy the doctor had in his youth been obliged to study 
physic, or rather to say he studied it; for in reality books of 
this kind were almost the only ones with which he was unac- 
quainted; and unfortunately for him, the doctor was master 
of almost every other science but that by which he was to get his 
bread ; the consequence of which was, that the doctor at the 
age of forty had no bread to eat. 

Such a person as this was certain to find a welcome at Mr 
Allworthy’s table, to whom misfortunes were ever a recom- 
mendation, when they were derived from the folly or villany 
of others, and not of the unfortunate person himself. Besides 
this negative merit, the doctor had one positive recommenda- 
tion ; — this was a great appearance of religion. Whether his 
religion was real, or consisted only in appearance, I shall not 
presume to say, as I am not possessed of any touchstone which 
can distinguish the true from the false. 

If this part of his character pleased Mr All worthy, it de- 
lighted Miss Bridget. She engaged him in many religious con- 
troversies; on which occasions she constantly expressed great 
satisfaction in the doctor’s knowledge, and not much less in the 
compliments which he frequently bestowed on her o\yn. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


19 


As sympathies of all kinds are apt to beget love, so experience 
teaches us that none have a more direct tendency this way than 
those of a religious kind between persons of different sexes. 
The doctor found himself so agreeable to Miss Bridget, that he 
now began to lament an unfortunate accident which had hap- 
pened to him about ten years before ; namely, his marriage with 
another woman, who was not only still alive, but, what was 
worse, known to be so by Mr All worthy. 

He had not long ruminated on these matters, before it oc- 
curred to his memory that he had a brother who was under 
no such unhappy incapacity. This brother he made no doubt 
would succeed ; for he discerned, as he thought, an inclination 
to marriage in the lady; and the reader perhaps, when he hears 
the brother’s qualifications, will not blame the confidence which 
he entertained of his success. 

This gentleman was about thirty-five years of age. He w T as 
of a middle size, and what is called well-built. He had a scar 
on his forehead, which did not so much injure his beauty as it 
denoted his valour (for he w r as a half-pay officer). He had 
good teeth, and something affable, when he pleased, in his 
smile; though naturally his countenance, as w'ell as his air and 
voice, had much of roughness in it : yet he could at any time de- 
posit this, and appear all gentleness and good-humour. He 
was not ungenteel, nor entirely devoid of wit, and in his youth 
had abounded in sprightliness, which, though he had lately put 
on a more serious character, he could, when he pleased, re- 
sume. 

He had, as well as the doctor, an academic education; for 
his father had, with the same paternal authority we have men- 
tioned before, decreed him for holy orders ; but as the old gentle- 
man died before he was ordained, he chose the church military, 
and preferred the king’s commission to the bishop’s. 

He had purchased the post of lieutenant of dragoons, and 
afterwards came to be a captain; but having quarrelled with 
his colonel, was by his interest obliged to sell ; from which time 
he had entirely rusticated himself, had betaken himself to study- 
ing the Scriptures, and was not a little suspected of an inclina- 
tion to Methodism. 

It seemed, therefore, not unlikely that such a person should 
succeed with a lady of so saint-like a disposition, and whose in- 
clinations were no otherwise engaged than to the marriage state 


20 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


in general ; but why the doctor, who certainly had no great 
friendship for his brother, should for his sake think of making 
so ill a return to the hospitality of Allworthy, is a matter not 
so easy to be accounted for. 

Is it that some natures delight in evil, as others are thought to 
delight in virtue? Or is there a pleasure in being accessory to 
a theft when we cannot commit it ourselves? Or lastly (which 
experience seems to make probable), have we a satisfaction in 
aggrandizing our families, even though we have not the least 
love or respect for them? 

Whether any of these motives operated on the doctor, we 
will not determine; but so the fact was. He sent for his 
brother, and easily found means to introduce him at Allworthy’s 
as a person who intended only a short visit to himself. 

The captain had not been in the house a week before the 
doctor had reason to felicitate himself on his discernment. The 
captain was indeed as great a master of the art of love as Ovid 
was formerly. He had besides received proper hints from his 
brother, which he failed not to improve to the best advantage. 

Though Miss Bridget was a woman of the greatest delicacy 
of taste, yet such were the charms of the captain’s conversation, 
that she totally overlooked the defects of his person. She 
imagined, and perhaps very wisely, that she should enjoy more 
agreeable minutes with the captain than with a much prettier 
fellow; and forewent the consideration of pleasing her eyes, 
in order to procure herself much more solid satisfaction. 

The captain no sooner perceived the passion of Miss Bridget, 
in which discovery he was very quick-sighted, than he faithfully 
returned it. The lady, no more than her lover, was remark- 
able for beauty. I would attempt to draw her picture, but that 
is done already by a more able master, Mr Hogarth himself, 
to whom she sat many years ago, and hath been lately exhibited 
by that gentleman in his print of a winter’s morning, of which 
she was no improper emblem, and may be seen walking (for 
walk she doth in the print) to Covent Garden church, with a 
starved foot-boy behind carrying her prayer-book. 

The captain likewise very wisely preferred the more solid en- 
joyments he expected with this lady, to the fleeting charms of 
person. He was one of those wise men who regard beauty in 
the other sex as a very worthless and superficial qualification; 
or, to speak more truly, who rather chuse to possess every con- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


21 


venience of life with an ugly woman, than a handsome one 
without any of those conveniences. And having a very good 
appetite, and but little nicety, he fancied he should play his 
part very well at the matrimonial banquet, without the sauce 
of beauty. 

To deal plainly with the reader, the captain, ever since his 
arrival, at least from the moment his brother had proposed the 
match to him, long before he had discovered any flattering 
symptoms in Miss Bridget, had been greatly enamoured; that 
is to say, of Mr Allworthy’s house and gardens, and of his 
lands, tenements, and hereditaments; of all which the captain 
was so passionately fond, that he would most probably have 
contracted marriage with them, had he been obliged to have 
taken the witch of Endor into the bargain. 

As Mr Allworthy, therefore, had declared to the doctor that 
he never intended to take a second wife, as his sister was his 
nearest relation, and as the doctor had fished out that his inten- 
tions were to make any child of hers his heir, which indeed the 
law, without his interposition, would have done for him;, the 
doctor and his brother thought it an act of benevolence to give 
being to a human creature, who would be so plentifully pro- 
vided with the most essential means of happiness. The whole 
thoughts, therefore, of both the brothers were how to engage 
the affections of this amiable lady. 

But fortune, who is a tender parent, and often doth more 
for her favourite offspring than either they deserve or wish, 
had been so industrious for the captain, that whilst he was 
laying schemes to execute his purpose, the lady conceived the 
same desires with himself, and was on her side contriving how 
to give the captain proper encouragement, without appearing too 
forward ; for she was a strict observer of all rules of decorum. 
In this, however, she easily succeeded ; for as the captain was 
always on the look-out, no glance, gesture, or word escaped 
him. 

Not to tire the reader, by leading him through every scene 
of this courtship (which, though in the opinion of a certain 
great author, it is the pleasantest scene of life to the actor, is, 
perhaps, as dull and tiresome as any whatever to the audience), 
the captain made his advances in form, the citadel was defended 
in form, and at length, in proper form, surrendered at discre- 
tion. 


22 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


During this whole time, which filled the space of near a 
month, the captain preserved great distance of behaviour to his 
lady in the presence of the brother; and the more he succeeded 
with her in private, the more reserved was he in public. And 
as for the lady, she had no sooner secured her lover than she be- 
haved to him before company with the highest degree of in- 
difference; so that Mr Allworthy must have had the insight of 
the devil (or perhaps some of his worse qualities) to have en- 
tertained the least suspicion of what was going forward. 

In all bargains, whether to fight or to marry, or concerning 
any other such business, little previous ceremony is re- 
quired to bring the matter to an issue when both parties are 
really in earnest. This was the case at present, and in less 
than a month the captain and his lady were man and wife. 

The great concern now was to break the matter to Mr All- 
worthy; and this was undertaken by the doctor. 

One day, then, as Allworthy was walking in his garden, the 
doctor came to him, and, with great gravity of aspect, and all 
the concern which he could possibly affect in his countenance, 
said, “I am come, sir, to impart an affair to you of the utmost 
consequence; but how shall I mention to you what it almost 
distracts me to think of!” 

He then launched forth into the most bitter invectives both 
against men and women ; accusing the former of having no 
attachment but to their interest, and the latter of being so ad- 
dicted to vicious inclinations that they could never be safely 
trusted with one of the other sex. 

“Could I,” said he, “sir, have suspected that a lady of such 
prudence, such judgment, such learning, should indulge so in- 
discreet a passion ! or could I have imagined that my brother — 
why do I call him so? he is no longer a brother of mine ” 

“Indeed but he is,” said Allworthy, “and a brother of mine 
too.” 

“Bless me, sir!” said the doctor, “do you know the shocking 
affair?” 

“Look’ee, Mr Blifil,” answered the good man, “it hath been 
my constant maxim in life to make the best of all matters which 
happen. My sister, though many years younger than I, is at 
least old enough to be at the age of^ discretion. Had he im- 
posed on a child, I should have*T)een morT’'averse to have for- 
given him; but a woman upwards of thirty must certainly be 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


23 


supposed to know what will make her most happy. As to your 
brother, I have really no anger against him at all. He hath 
no obligations to me, nor do I think he was under any necessity 
of asking my consent, since the woman is, as I have said, sui 
juris, and of a proper age to be entirely answerable only to her- 
self for her conduct.” 

The doctor accused Mr Allworthy of too great lenity, re- 
peated his accusations against his brother, and declared that he 
should never more be brought either to see, or to own him for 
his relation. He then launched forth into a panegyric on All- 
worthy’s goodness, and the highest encomiums on his friend- 
ship. 

The reader, from what hath been said, may imagine that the 
reconcilation (if indeed it could be so called) was only matter 
of form; we shall therefore pass it over, and hasten to what 
must surely be thought matter of substance. 

The doctor had acquainted his brother with what had past 
between Mr Allworthy and him; and added with a smile, “I 
promise you I paid you off; nay, I absolutely desired the good 
gentleman not to forgive you : for you know after he had made 
a declaration in your favour, I might with safety venture on 
such a request with a person of his temper; and I was willing, 
as well for your sake as for my own, to prevent the least possi- 
bility of a suspicion.” 

Capain Blifil took not the least notice of this, at that time; 
but he afterwards made a very notable use of it: for no sooner 
was he possessed of Miss Bridget, and reconciled to Allworthy, 
than he began to show a coldness to his brother which increased 
daily; till at length it grew into rudeness. 

The doctor remonstrated to him privately concerning this 
behaviour, but could obtain no other satisfaction than the fol- 
lowing plain declaration: “If you dislike anything in my 
brother’s house, sir, you know you are at liberty to quit it.” 
This strange, cruel, and almost unaccountable ingratitude in 
the captain, absolutely broke the poor doctor’s heart; for in- 
gratitude never so thoroughly pierces the human breast as when 
it proceeds from those in whose behalf we have been guilty of 
transgressions. The house at last grew insupportable to the 
poor doctor ; and he chose rather to submit to any inconveniences 
which he might encounter in the world, than longer to bear 


24 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


these cruel and ungrateful insults from a brother for whom he 
had done so much. 

He feigned, therefore, some excuse of business for his de- 
parture, and promised to return soon again. The doctor went 
directly to London, where he died soon after of a broken heart ; a 
distemper which kills many more than is generally imagined, 
and would have a fair title to a place in the bill of mortality, 
did it not differ in one instance from all other diseases — viz., 
That no physician can cure it. 


CHAPTER IV. 


Religious cautions against showing too much favour to bas- 
tards; and a great discovery made by Mrs Deborah Wil- 
kins, with its remarkable consequences. 

Jh^IGHT months after the celebration of the nuptials be- 
tween Captain Blifil and Miss Bridget Allworthy, a 
young lady of great beauty, merit, and fortune', was Miss 
Bridget, by reason of a fright, delivered of a fine boy. The 
child was indeed to all appearances perfect; but the midwife 
discovered it was born a month before its full time. 

Though the birth of an heir by his beloved sister was a cir- 
cumstance of great joy to Mr Allworthy, yet it did not alienate 
his affections from the little foundling, to whom he had been 
godfather, had given his own name of Thomas, and whom he 
had hitherto seldom failed of visiting, at least once a day, in his 
nursery. 

He told his sister, if she pleased, the new-born infant should 
be bred up together with little Tommy; to which she consented, 
though with some little reluctance: for she had truly a great 
complacence for her brother ; and hence she had always behaved 
towards the foundling with rather more kindness than ladies 
of rigid virtue can sometimes bring themselves to show to these 
children, who, however innocent, may be truly called the liv- 
ing monuments of incontinence. 

The captain could not so easily bring himself to bear what 
he condemned as a fault in Mr Allworthy. He gave him fre- 
quent hints, that to adopt the fruits of sin, was to give counte- 
nance to it. He quoted several texts (for he was well read in 
Scripture), such as, He visits the sins of the fathers upon the 
children ; and the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the chil- 
dren s teeth are set on edge, etc. Whence he argued the legality 
of punishing the crime of the parent on the bastard. He said, 
though the law did not positively allow the destroying such base- 
born children, yet it held them to be the children of nobody; 


26 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


that the Church considered them as the children of nobody ; and 
that at the best, they ought to be brought up to the lowest and 
vilest offices of the commonwealth. 

Mr Allworthy answered to all this, and much more, which 
the captain had argued on this subject, that, however guilty the 
parents might be, the children were certainly innocent: that as 
to the texts he had quoted, the former of them was a particular 
denunciation against the Jews, for the sin of idolatry, of relin- 
quishing and hating their heavenly King; and the latter was 
parabolically spoken, and rather intended to denote the certain 
and necessary consequences of sin, than any express judgment 
against it. But to represent the Almighty as avenging the sins 
of the guilty on the innocent, was indecent, if not blasphemous, 
as it was to represent him acting against the first principles of 
natural justice, and against the original notions of right and 
wrong, which he himself had implanted in our minds. He said 
he knew many held the same principles with the captain on this 
head ; but he was himself firmly convinced to the contrary, and 
would provide in the same manner for this poor infant, as if a 
legitimate child had had the fortune to have been found in the 
same place. 

While the captain was taking all opportunities to press these 
and such like arguments, to remove the little foundling from Mr 
Allworthy’s, of whose fondness for him he began to be jealous, 
Mrs Deborah had made a discovery, which, in its event, threat- 
ened at least to prove more fatal to poor Tommy than all the 
reasonings of the captain, for she had now, as she conceived, 
fully detected the father of the foundling. 

My reader may please to remember he hath been informed 
that Jenny Jones had lived some years with a certain 
schoolmaster, who had, at her earnest desire, instructed her 
in Latin, in which, to do justice to her genius, she had so 
improved herself, that she was become a better scholar than her 
master. 

Indeed, though this poor man had undertaken a profession to 
which learning must be allowed necessary, this was the least 
of his commendations. He was one of the best-natured fellows 
in the world, and was, at the same time, master of so much pleas- 
antry and humour, that he was reputed the wit of the country ; 
and all the neighbouring gentlemen were so desirous of his com- 
pany, that as denying was not his talent, he spent much time 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


27 

at their houses, which he might, with more emolument, have 
spent in his school. 

The stipend arising hence would hardly have indulged the 
schoolmaster in the luxuries of life, had he not added to this 
office those of clerk and barber, and had not Mr Allworthy 
added to the whole an annuity of ten pounds, which the poor 
man received every Christmas, and with which he was enabled 
to cheer his heart during that sacred festival. 

Among his other treasures, the pedagogue had a wife, whom 
he had married out of Mr Allworthy’s kitchen for her fortune, 
viz., twenty pounds, which she had there amassed. 

This woman was not very amiable in her person. She was, 
besides, a profest follower of that noble sect founded by Xan- 
tippe of old ; by means of which she became more formidable in 
the school than her husband; for, to confess the truth, he was 
never master there, or anywhere else, in her presence. 

Though her countenance did not denote much natural sweet- 
ness of temper, yet this was, perhaps, somewhat soured by a 
circumstance which generally poisons matrimonial felicity; for 
children are rightly called the pledges of love ; and her husband, 
though they had been married nine years, had given her no 
such pledges; a default for which he had no excuse, either from 
age or health, being not yet thirty years old, and what they call 
a jolly brisk young man. 

Hence arose another evil, which produced no little uneasiness 
to the poor pedagogue, of whom she maintained so constant a 
jealousy, that he durst hardly speak to one woman in the parish; 
for the least degree of civility, or even correspondence, with any 
female, was sure to bring his wife upon her back, and his own. 

In order to guard hercelf against matrimonial injuries in her 
own house, as she kept one maid-servant, she always took care 
to chuse her out of that order of females whose faces are taken 
as a kind of security for their virtue; of which number Jenny 
Jones, as the reader hath been before informed, was one. 

As the face of this young woman might be called pretty good 
security of the before-mentioned kind, and as her behaviour had 
been always extremely modest, which is the certain consequence 
of understanding in women ; she had passed above four years at 
Mr Partridge’s (for that was the schoolmaster’s name) without 
creating the least suspicion in her mistress. 

But it is with jealousy as with the gout: when such dis- 


28 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


tempers are in the blood, there is never any security against their 
breaking out ; and that often on the slightest occasions, and when 
least suspected. 

Thus it happened to Mrs Partridge, who had submitted four 
years to her husband’s teaching this young woman, and had suf- 
fered her often to neglect her work in order to pursue her learn- 
ing. For, passing by one day, as th? girl was reading, and her 
master leaning over her, the girl, I know not for what reason, 
suddenly started up from her chair: and this was the first time 
that suspicion ever entered into the head of her mistress. 

This did not, however, at that time discover itself, but lay 
lurking in her mind, like a concealed enemy, who waits for a 
reinforcement of additional strength before he openly declares 
himself and proceeds upon hostile operations : and such additional 
strength soon arrived to corroborate her suspicion ; for not long 
after, the husband and wife being at dinner, the master said to 
his maid, Da mihi aliquid potum: upon which the poor girl 
smiled, perhaps at the badness of the Latin, and, when her mis- 
tress cast her eyes on her, blushed, possibly with a consciousness 
of having laughed at her master. 

Mrs Partridge, upon this, immediately fell into a fury, and 
discharged the trencher on which she was eating, at the head of 
poor Jenny, crying out, “You impudent whore, do you play 
tricks with my husband before my face?” and at the same instant 
rose from her chair with a knife in her hand, with which, most 
probably, she would have executed very tragical vengeance, had 
not the girl taken the advantage of being nearer the door than 
her mistress, and avoided her fury by running away: for, as to 
the poor husband, whether surprize had rendered him motionless, 
or fear (which is full as probable) had restrained him from ven- 
turing at any opposition, he sat staring and trembling in his 
chair; nor did he once offer to move or speak, till his wife, re- 
turning from the pursuit of Jenny, made some defensive meas- 
ures necessary for his own preservation; and he likewise was 
obliged to retreat, after the example of the maid. 

This good woman was, no more than Othello, of a disposi- 
tion 

To make a life of jealousy, 

And follow still the changes of the moon 
With fresh suspicions 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


29 


With her, as well as him, 

— To be once in doubt, 

• Was once to be resolv’d 

she therefore ordered Jenny immediately to pack up her alls 
and begone, for that she was determined she should not sleep 
that night within her walls. 

Mr Partridge had profited too much by experience to inter- 
pose in a matter of this nature. He therefore had recourse to his 
usual receipt of patience; for, though he was not a great adept 
in Latin, he remembered, and well understood, the advice con- 
tained in these words: 

Leve fit , quod bene fertur onus . 


in English: 

A burden becomes lightest when it is well-borne — 

which he had always in his mouth; and of which, to say the 
truth, he had often occasion to experience the truth. 

Jenny offered to make protestations of her innocence; but the 
tempest was too strong for her to be heard. She then betook 
herself to the business of packing, for which a small quantity of 
brown paper sufficed; and, having received her small pittance 
of wages, she returned home. 

The schoolmaster and his consort passed their time unpleas- 
antly enough that evening; but she at length admitted her hus- 
band to make his excuses : to which she gave the readier belief, as 
he had, instead of desiring her to recall Jenny, professed a satis- 
faction in her being dismissed. 

In the end, Mrs Partridge was pretty well satisfied that she 
had condemned her husband without cause, and endeavoured by 
acts of kindness to make him amends for her false suspicion, and, 
had it not been for some little exercises, which all the followers 
of Xantippe are obliged to perform daily, Mr Partridge would 
have enjoyed a perfect serenity of several months. 

Mankind have always taken great delight in knowing and 
descanting on the actions of others. Hence there have been, in 
all ages and nations, certain places set apart for public ren- 


30 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


dezvous, where the curious might meet and satisfy their mutual 
curiosity. Among these, the barbers’ shops have justly borne 
the pre-eminence. Among the Greeks, barbers’ news was a 
proverbial expression; and Horace, in one of his epistles, makes 
honourable mention of the Roman barbers in the same light. 

Now, whereas the females of this country, especially those of 
the lower order, do associate themselves much more than those of 
other nations, our polity would be highly deficient, if they had 
not some place set apart likewise for the indulgence of their 
curiosity. This place then is no other than the chandler’s shop, 
the known seat of all the news ; or, as it is vulgarly called, gossip- 
ing, in every parish in, -England. 

Mrs Partridge being one day at this assembly of females, was 
asked by one of her neighbours, if she had heard no news lately 
of Jenny Jones? To which she answered in the negative. Upon 
this the other replied, with a smile, that the parish was very 
much obliged to her for having turned Jenny away as she 
did. 

Mrs Partridge, whose jealousy, as the reader well knows, 
was long since cured, and who had no other quarrel to her 
maid, answered boldly, she did not know any obligation the 
parish had to her on that account; for she believed Jenny had 
scarce left her equal behind her. 

“No, truly,” said the gossip, “I hope not, though I fancy we 
have sluts enow too. Then you have not heard, it seems, that 
she hath been brought to bed of two bastards? but as they are 
not born here, my husband and the other overseer says we shall 
not be obliged tc keep them.” 

“Two bastards !” answered Mrs Partridge hastily : “you sur- 
prize me! I don’t know whether we must keep them; but I 
am sure they must have been begotten here, for the wench hath 
not been nine months gone away.” 

Nothing can be so quick and sudden as the operations of the 
mind, especially when hope, or fear, or jealousy, to which the 
two others are but journeymen, set it to work. It occurred in- 
stantly to her, that Jenny had scarce ever been out of her own 
house while she lived with her. The leaning over the chair, 
the sudden starting up, the Latin, the smile, and many other 
things, rushed upon her all at once. The satisfaction her hus- 
band expressed in the departure of Jenny, appeared now to be 
only dissembled ; again, in the same instant, to be real ; but yet 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


31 


to confirm her jealousy, proceeding from satiety, and a hundred 
other bad causes. In a word, she was convinced of her hus- 
band’s guilt, and immediately left the assembly in confusion. 

As fair Grimalkin, who, though the youngest of the feline 
family, degenerates not in ferocity from the elder branches of 
her house, and though inferior in strength, is equal in fierce- 
ness to the noble tiger himself, when a little mouse, whom it 
hath long tormented in sport, escapes from her clutches for a 
while, frets, scolds, growls, swears ; but if the trunk, or box, 
behind which the mouse lay hid be again removed, she flies like 
lightning on her prey, and, with envenomed wrath, bites, 
scratches, mumbles, and tears the little animal. 

Not with less fury did Mrs Partridge fly on the poor peda- 
gogue. Her tongue, teeth, and hands, fell all upon him at 
once. His wig was in an instant torn from his head, his shirt 
from his back, and from his face descended five streams of 
blood, denoting the number of claws with which nature had un- 
happily armed the enemy. 

Mr Partridge acted for some time on the defensive only; 
indeed he attempted only to guard his face with his hands; but 
as he found that his antagonist abated nothing of her rage, he 
thought he might, at least, endeavour to disarm her, or rather 
to confine her arms; in doing which her cap fell off in the 
struggle, and her hair being too short to reach her shoulders, 
erected itself on her head ; her stays likewise, which were laced 
through one single hole at the bottom, burst open; and her 
breasts, which were much more redundant than her hair, hung 
down below her middle ; her face was likewise marked with the 
blood of her husband: her teeth gnashed with rage; and fire, 
such as sparkles from a smith’s forge, darted from her eyes. 
So that, altogether, this Amazonian heroine might have been 
an object of terror to a much bolder man than Mr Partridge. 

He had, at length, the good fortune, by getting possession 
of her arms, to render those weapons which she wore at the 
ends of her fingers useless; which she no sooner perceived, than 
the softness of her sex prevailed over her rage, and she presently 
dissolved in tears, which soon after concluded in a fit. 

That small share of sense which Mr Partridge had hitherto 
preserved through this scene of fury, of the cause of which he 
was entirely ignorant, now utterly abandoned him. He ran 
instantly into the street, hallowing out that his wife was in the 


32 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


agonies of death, and beseeching the neighbours to fly with the 
utmost haste to her assistance. Several good women obeyed his 
summons, who entering his house, and applying the usual rem- 
edies on such occasions, Mrs Partridge was at length, to the 
great joy of her husband, brought to herself. 

As soon as she had a little recollected her spirits, and some- 
what composed herself with a cordial, she began to inform the 
company of the manifold injuries she had received from her 
husband; who, she said, was not contented to injure her in her 
bed; but, upon her upbraiding him with it, had treated her in 
the crudest manner imaginable ; had tore her cap and hair from 
her head, and her stays from her body, giving her, at the same 
time, several blows, the marks of which she should carry to the 
grave. 

The poor man, who bore on his face many more visible marks 
of the indignation of his wife, stood in silent astonishment at 
this accusation; and this silence being interpreted to be a con- 
fession of the charge by the whole court, they all began at once, 
una voce , to rebuke and revile him, repeating often, that none 
but a coward ever struck a woman. 

Mr Partridge bore all this patiently; but when his wife ap- 
pealed to the blood on her face, as an evidence of his barbarity, 
he could not help laying claim to his own blood, for so it really 
was; as he thought it very unnatural, that this should rise up 
(as we are taught that of a murdered person often doth) in 
vengeance against him. 

To this the women made no other answer, than that it was 
a pity it had not come from his heart, instead of his face ; all 
declaring, that, if their husbands should lift their hands against 
them, they would have their hearts’ bloods out of their bodies. 

After much admonition for what was past, and much good ad- 
vice to Mr Partridge for his future behaviour, the company at 
length departed, and left the husband and wife to a personal 
conference together, in which Mr Partridge soon learned the 
cause of all his sufferings. 

Mrs Wilkins having, by accident, gotten a true scent of the 
above story, though long after it had happened, failed not to 
satisfy herself thoroughly of all the particulars; and then ac- 
quainted Captain Blifil, that she had at last discovered the true 
father of the little bastard, which she was sorry, she said, to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


33 

see her master lose his reputation in the country, by taking so 
much notice of. 

The captain chid her for the conclusion of her speech, as an 
improper assurance in judging of her master’s actions: for if 
his honour, or his understanding, would have suffered the 
captain to make an alliance with Mrs Wilkins, his pride would 
by no means have admitted it. But though he declared no satis- 
faction to Mrs Wilkins at this discovery, he enjoyed not a little 
from it in his own mind, and resolved to make the best use of 
it he was able. 

He kept this matter a long time concealed within his own 
breast, in hopes that Mr Allworthy might hear it from some 
other person ; but Mrs Wilkins, whether she resented the cap- 
tain’s behaviour, or whether his cunning was beyond her, and 
she feared the discovery might displease him, never afterwards 
opened her lips about the matter. 

The captain, therefore, finding the story in danger of perish- 
ing, at last took an opportunity to reveal it himself. 

He was one day engaged with Mr Allworthy in a discourse 
on charity: in which the captain, with great learning, proved to 
Mr Allworthy, that the word charity in Scripture nowhere 
means beneficence or generosity. 

“But though,” continued he, “there is, I am afraid, little 
merit in benefactions, there would, I must confess, be much 
pleasure in them to a good mind, if it was not abated by one 
consideration. I mean, that we are liable to be imposed upon, 
and to confer our choicest favours often on the undeserving, as 
you must own was your case in your bounty to that worthless 
fellow Partridge : for two or three such examples must greatly 
lessen the inward satisfaction which a good man would other- 
wise find in generosity; nay, may even make him timorous in 
bestowing, lest he should be guilty of supporting vice, and en- 
couraging the wicked.” 

“As to the apprehension of bestowing bounty on such as 
may hereafter prove unworthy objects,” Mr Allworthy an- 
swered, “because many have proved such; surely it can never 
deter a good man from generosity. I do not think a few or 
many examples of ingratitude can justify a man’s hardening 
his heart against the distresses of his fellow-creatures; nor do 
I believe it can ever have such effect on a truly benevolent 


34 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


mind.” He then concluded by asking, who that Partridge was, 
whom he had called a worthless fellow? 

“I mean,” said the captain, ‘‘Partridge the barber, the school- 
master, what do you call him? Partridge, the father of the 
little child which you found in your bed.” 

Mr All worthy exprest great surprize at this account, and 
the captain as great at his ignorance of it; for he said he had 
known it above a month; and at length recollected with much 
difficulty that he was told it by Mrs Wilkins. 

Upon this, Wilkins was immediately summoned; who hav- 
ing confirmed what the captain had said, was by Mr Allworthy, 
by and with the captain’s advice, dispatched to Little Badding- 
ton, to inform herself of the truth of the fact. 

Having executed her commission with great dispatch, though 
at fifteen miles distance, she brought back such a confirmation 
of the schoolmaster’s guilt, that Mr Allworthy determined to 
send for the criminal, and examine him viva voce. Mr Part- 
ridge, therefore, was summoned to attend, in order to his de- 
fence (if he could make any) against this accusation. 

At the time appointed, before Mr Allworthy himself, at 
Paradise-hall, came as well the said Partridge, with Anne, his 
wife, as Mrs Wilkins his accuser. 

And now Mr Allworthy being seated in the chair of justice, 
Mr Partridge was brought before him. Having heard his 
accusation from the mouth of Mrs Wilkins, he pleaded not 
guilty, making many vehement protestations of his innocence. 

Mrs Partridge was then examined, who, after a modest 
apology for being obliged to speak the truth against her hus- 
band, related all the circumstances with which the reader hath 
already been acquainted; and at last concluded with her hus- 
band’s confession of his guilt. 

Partridge still persisted in asserting his innocence, though he 
admitted he had made the above-mentioned confession; which 
he however endeavoured to account for, by protesting that he 
was forced into it by the continued importunity she used: who 
vowed, that, as she was sure of his guilt, she would never 
leave tormenting him till he had owned it ; and faithfully prom- 
ised, that, in such case, she would never mention it to him more. 
Hence, he said, he had been induced falsely to confess himself 
guilty, though he was innocent ; and that he believed he should 
have confest a murder from the same motive. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


35 


Mrs Partridge could not bear this imputation with patience; 
and having no other remedy in the present place but tears, she 
called forth a plentiful assistance from them,, and then address- 
ing herself to Mr Allworthy, she said (or rather cried), “May 
it please your worship, there never was any poor woman so in- 
jured as I am by that base man ; for this is not the only instance 
of his falsehood to me. No, may it please your worship, he 
hath injured my bed many’s the good time and often. I could 
have put up with his drunkenness and neglect of his business, if 
he had not broke one of the sacred commandments. Besides, if 
it had been out of doors I had not mattered it so much; but 
with my own servant, in my own house, under my own roof, to 
defile my own chaste bed. And since he provokes me, I am 
ready, an’t please your worship, to take my bodily oath that I 
found them a-bed together. What, you have forgot, I suppose, 
when you beat me into a fit, and made the blood run down my 
forehead, because I only civilly taxed you with adultery! but 
I can prove it by all my neighbours. You have almost broke 
my heart, you have, you have.” 

Here Mr Allworthy interrupted, and begged her to be 
pacified, promising her that she should have justice; then turn- 
ing to Partridge, who stood aghast, one half of his wits being 
hurried away by surprize and the other half by fear, he said 
he was sorry to see there was so wicked a man in the world. 
He assured him that his prevaricating and lying backward and 
forward was a great aggravation of his guilt ; for wdiich the only 
atonement he could make was by confession and repentance. 
He exhorted him, therefore, to begin by immediately confessing 
the fact, and not to persist in denying what was so plainly 
proved against him even by his own wife. 

Partridge stood a while silent, till, being bid to speak, he 
said he had already spoken the truth, and appealed to Heaven 
for his innocence, and lastly to the girl herself, whom he de- 
sired his worship immediately to send for ; for he was ignorant, 
or at least pretended to be so, that she had left that part of the 
country. 

Mr All worthy, whose natural love of justice, joined to his 
coolness of temper, made him always a most patient magistrate 
in hearing all the witnesses which an accused person could pro- 
duce in his defence, agreed to defer his final determination of 
this matter till the arrival of Jenny, for whom he immediately 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


36 

dispatched a messenger ; and then having recommended peace be- 
tween Partridge and his wife (though he addressed himself 
r chiefly to the wrong person), he appointed them to attend again 
the third day; for he had sent Jenny a whole day’s journey from 
his own house. 

At the appointed time the parties all assembled, when the 
messenger returning brought word, that Jenny was not to be 
found; for that she had left her habitation a few days before, in 
company with a recruiting officer. 

Mr Allworthy then declared that the evidence of such a 
slut as she appeared to be would have deserved no credit; but 
he said he could not help thinking that, had she been present, 
and would have declared the truth, she must have confirmed 
what so many circumstances, together with his own confession, 
and the declaration of his wife that she 'had caught her hus- 
band in the fact, did sufficiently prove. He therefore once more 
exhorted Partridge to confess; but he still avowing his inno- 
cence, Mr Allworthy declared himself satisfied of his guilt, 
and that he was too bad a man to receive any encouragement 
from him. He therefore deprived him of his annuity, and 
recommended repentance to him on account of another world, 
and industry to maintain himself and his wife in this. 

Whether Partridge repented or not, according to Mr All- 
worthy’s advice, is not apparent. Certain it is that his wife re- 
pented heartily of the evidence she had given against him; es- 
pecially when she found Mrs Deborah had deceived her, and 
refused to make any application to Mr Allworthy on her be- 
half. She had, however, somewhat better success with Mrs 
Blifil, who was, as the reader must have perceived, a much bet- 
ter-tempered woman, and very kindly undertook to solicit her 
brother to restore the annuity. 

These solicitations were nevertheless unsuccessful : for 
though Mr Allworthy did not think, with some late writers, 
that mercy consists only in punishing offenders; yet he was as 
far from thinking that it is proper to this excellent quality to 
pardon great criminals wantonly, without any reason whatever. 
Any doubtfulness of the fact, or any circumstance of mitigation, 
was never disregarded: but the petitions of an offender, or the 
intercessions of others, did not in the least affect him. In a 
word, he never pardoned because the offender himself, or his 
friends, were unwilling that he should be punished. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


37 


Partridge and his wife were therefore both obliged to submit 
to their fate; which was indeed severe enough: for so far was 
he from doubling his industry on the account of his lessened in- 
come, that he did in a manner abandon himself to despair ; and 
as he was by nature indolent, that vice now increased upon him, 
by which means he lost the little school he had ; so that neither 
his wife nor himself would have had any bread to eat, had not 
the charity of some good Christian interposed, and provided 
them with what was just sufficient for their sustenance. 

As this support'Was conveyed to them by an unknown hand, 
they imagined, and so, I doubt not, will the reader, that Mr 
Allworthy himself was their secret benefactor; who, though he 
would not openly encourage vice, could yet privately relieve the 
distresses of the vicious themselves, when these became too ex- 
quisite and disproportionate to their demerit. In which light 
their wretchedness appeared now to Fortune herself ; for she at 
length took pity on this miserable couple, and considerably les- 
sened the wretched state of Partridge, by putting a final end to 
that of his wife, who soon after caught the small-pox, and died. 

Partridge having now lost his wife, his school, and his an- 
nuity, and the unknown person having now discontinued the 
last-mentioned charity, resolved to change the scene, and left the 
country, where he was in danger of starving, with the universal 
compassion of all his neighbours. 

Though the captain had thus effectually demolished poor 
Partridge, yet had he not reaped the harvest he hoped 
for, which was to turn the foundling out of Mr Allworthy’s 
house. On the contrary, that gentleman grew every day fonder 
of little Tommy, as if he intended to counterbalance his severity 
to the father with extraordinary fondness and affection towards 
the son. This a good deal soured the captain’s temper, as did 
all the other daily instances of Mr Allworthy’s generosity; for 
he looked on all such largesses to be diminutions of his own 
wealth. 

In this, we have said, he did not agree with his wife; nor, in- 
deed, in anything else; for though an affection placed on the 
understanding is, by many wise persons, thought more durable 
than that which is founded on beauty, yet it happened otherwise 
in the present case. Nay, the understandings of this couple 
were their principal bone of contention, and one great cause of 
many quarrels, which from time to time arose between them; 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


38 

and which at last ended, on the side of the lady, in a sovereign 
contempt for her husband ; and on the husband’s, in an utter ab- 
horrence of his wife. 

The captain, however, was made large amends for the un- 
pleasant minutes which he passed in her conversation (and which 
were as few as he could contrive to make them), by the pleasant 
meditations he enjoyed when alone. 

These meditations were entirely employed on Mr All worthy’s 
fortune; for, first, he exercised much thought in calculating, 
as well as he could, the exact value of the whole: which calcu- 
lations he often saw’ occasion to alter in his own favour: and, 
secondly and chiefly, he pleased himself with intended alterations 
in the house and gardens, and in projecting many other schemes, 
as well for the improvement of the estate as of the grandeur of 
the place: for this purpose he applied himself to the studies of 
architecture and gardening, and read over many books on both 
these subjects; for these sciences, indeed, employed his whole 
time, and formed his only amusement. He at last completed a 
most excellent plan : and very sorry we are, that it is not in our 
power to present it to our reader, since even the luxury of the 
present age, I believe, would hardly match it. 

Nothing was wanting to enable him to enter upon the imme- 
diate execution of this plan, but the death of Mr Allworthy ; in 
calculating which he had employed much of his own algebra, 
besides purchasing every book extant that treats of the value of 
lives, reversions, &c. But w^hile the captain was one day busied 
in deep contemplations of this kind, one of the most unlucky 
as well as unseasonable accidents happened to him. The utmost 
malice of Fortune could, indeed, have contrived nothing so 
cruel, so mal-a-propos, so absolutely destructive to all his schemes. 
In short, not to keep the reader in long suspense, just at the very 
instant when his heart was exulting in meditations on the hap- 
piness w^hich would accrue to him by Mr Allw T orthy’s death, 
he himself — died of an apoplexy. 


CHAPTER V. 


The hero of this great history appears with very bad omens. 

we determined, when we first sat down to write this his- 
tory, to flatter no man, but to guide our pen throughout 
by the directions of truth, we are obliged to bring our 
hero on the stage in a much more disadvantageous manner than 
we could wish; and to declare honestly, even at his first appear- 
ance, that it was the universal opinion of all Mr Allworthy’s 
family that he was certainly born to be hanged. 

Indeed, I am sorry to say there was too much reason for this 
conjecture; the lad having from his earliest years discovered a 
propensity to many vices, and especially to one which hath as di- 
rect a tendency as any other to that fate which we have just now 
observed to have been prophetically denounced against him: he 
had been already convicted of three robberies, viz., of robbing 
an orchard, of stealing a duck out of a farmer’s yard, and of 
picking Master Blifil’s pocket of a ball. 

The vices of this young man were, moreover, heightened by 
the disadvantageous light in which they appeared when opposed 
to the virtues of Master Blifil, his companion; a youth of so 
different a cast from little Jones, that not only the' family but 
all the neighbourhood resounded his praises. He was, indeed, a 
lad of a remarkable disposition ; sober, discreet, and pious be- 
yond his age; qualities which gained him the love of every one 
who knew him : while Tom Jones was universally disliked ; 
and many expressed their wonder that Mr Allworthy would 
suffer such a lad to be educated with his nephew, lest the morals 
of the latter should be corrupted by his example. 

An incident which happened about this time will set the 
characters of these two lads more fairly before the discerning 
reader than is in the power of the longest dissertation. 

Tom Jones, who, bad as he is, most serve for the hero of this 
history, had only one friend among all the servants of the 
family. This friend was the gamekeeper, a fellow of a loose 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


40 

kind of disposition, and who was thought not to entertain much 
stricter notions concerning the difference of meum and tuum 
than the young gentleman himself. 

To say the truth, some of that atrocious wickedness in Jones, 
of which we have just mentioned three examples, might per- 
haps be derived from the encouragement he had received from 
this fellow, who, in two or three instances, had been what the 
law calls an accessary after the fact: for the whole duck, and 
great part of the apples, were converted to the use of the game- 
keeper and his family; though, as Jones alone was discovered, 
the poor lad bore not only the whole smart, but the whole 
blame; both which fell again to his lot on the following oc- 
casion. 

Contiguous to Mr Allworthy’s es|ate was the manor of one 
of those gentlemen who are called plrservers of the game. This 
species of men, from the great severity with which they revenge 
the death of a hare or partridge, might be thought to cultivate 
the same superstition with the Bannians in India; many of 
whom, we are told, dedicate their whole lives to the preservation 
and protection of certain animals; was it not that our English 
Bannians, while they preserve them from other enemies, will 
most unmercifully slaughter whole horse-loads themselves; so 
that they stand clearly acquitted of any such heathenish super- 
stition. 

Little Jones went one day a shooting with the gamekeeper; 
when happening to spring a covey of partridges near the border 
of that manor over which Fortune, to fulfil the wise purposes of 
Nature, had planted one of the game consumers, the birds flew 
into it, and were marked (as it was called) by the two sports- 
men, in some furze bushes, about two or three hundred paces 
beyond Mr Allworthy’s dominions. 

Mr Allworthy had given the fellow strict orders, on pain of 
forfeiting his place, never to trespass on any of his neighbours; 
no more on those who were less rigid in this matter than on the 
lord of this manor. With regard to others, indeed, these orders 
had not been always very scrupulously kept; but as the dis- 
position of the gentleman with whom the partridges had taken 
sanctuary was well known, the gamekeeper had never yet at- 
tempted to invade his territories. Nor had he done it now, 
had not the younger sportsman, who was excessively eager to 
pursue the flying game, over-persuaded him; but Jones being 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


41 


very importunate, the other, who was himself keen enough after 
the sport, yielded to his persuasions, entered the manor, and shot 
one of the partridges. 

The gentleman himself was at that time on horse-back, at a 
little distance from them; and hearing the gun go off, he im- 
mediately made towards the place, and discovered poor Tom; 
for the gamekeeper had leapt into the thickest part of the furze- 
brake, where he had happily concealed himself. 

The gentleman having searched the lad, and found the part- 
ridge upon him, denounced great vengeance, swearing he would 
acquaint Mr Allworthy. He was as good as his word: for he 
rode immediately to his house, and complained of the trespass 
on his manor in as high terms and as bitter language as if his 
house had been broken open, and the most valuable furniture 
stole out of it. He added, that some other person was in his 
company, though he could not discover him; for that two guns 
had been discharged almost in the same instant. 

At his return home, Tom was presently convened before Mr 
Allworthy. He owned the fact, and alleged no other excuse 
but what was really true, viz., that the covey was originally 
sprung in Mr All worthy’s own manor. 

Tom was then interrogated who was with him, which Mr 
Allworthy declared he was resolved to know, acquainting the 
culprit with the circumstance of the two guns, which had been 
deposed by the squire and both his servants; but Tom stoutly 
persisted in asserting that he was alone ; yet, to say the truth, he 
hesitated a little at first, which would have confirmed Mr All- 
worthy’s belief, had what the squire and his servants said wanted 
any further confirmation. 

The gamekeeper, being a suspected person, was now sent for, 
and the question put to him; but he, relying on the promise 
which Tom had made him, to take all upon himself, very 
resolutely denied being in company with the young gentleman, 
or indeed having seen him the whole afternoon. 

Mr Allworthy then turned towards Tom, with more than 
usual anger in his countenance, and advised him to confess who 
was with him; repeating, that he was resolved to know. The 
lad, however, still maintained his resolution, and was dismissed 
with much wrath by Mr Allworthy, who told him he should 
have to the next morning to consider of it, when he should be 
questioned by another person, and in another manner. 


42 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


In the morning, when Tom attended the reverend Mr 
Thwackum, the person to whom Mr Allworthy had committed 
the instruction of the two boys, he had the same questions put to 
him by that gentleman which he had been asked the evening 
before, to which he returned the same answers. The conse- 
quence of this was, so severe a whipping, that it possibly fell 
little short of the torture with which confessions are in some 
countries extorted from criminals. 

Tom bore his punishment with great resolution ; and though 
his master asked him, between every stroke, whether he would 
not confess, he was contented to be dead rather than betray his 
friend, or break the promise he had made. 

The gamekeeper was now relieved from his anxiety, and Mr 
Allworthy himself began to be concerned at Tom’s sufferings: 
for besides that Mr Thwackum, being highly enraged that he 
was not able to make the boy say what he himself pleased, had 
carried his severity much beyond the good man’s intention, this 
latter began now to suspect that the squire had been mistaken; 
which his extreme eagerness and anger seemed to make pro- 
bable; and as for what the servants had said in confirmation 
of their master’s account, he laid no great stress upon that. 
Now, as cruelty and injustice were two ideas of which Mr All- 
worthy could by no means support the consciousness a single 
moment, he sent for Tom, and after many kind and friendly ex- 
hortations, said, “I am convinced, my dear child, that my sus- 
picions have wronged you; I am sorry that you have been so 
severely punished on this account.” And at last gave him a 
little horse to make him amends ; again repeating his sorrow for 
what had past. 

Tom’s guilt now flew in his face more than any severity could 
make it. He could more easily bear the lashes of Thwackum, 
than the generosity of Allworthy; and at that very instant, from 
the fulness of his heart, had almost betrayed the secret ; but the 
good genius of the gamekeeper suggested to him what might be 
the consequence to the poor fellow, and this consideration sealed 
his lips. 

Thwackum did all he could to persuade Allworthy from 
showing any compassion or kindness to the boy, saying he had 
persisted in an untruth; and gave some hints, that a second 
whipping might probably bring the matter to light. 

But Mr Allworthy absolutely refused to consent to the ex- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


43 


periment. He said, the boy had suffered enough already for 
concealing the truth, even if he was guilty, seeing that he could 
have no motive but a mistaken point of honour for so doing. 

“Honour!” cried Thwackum, with some warmth, “mere 
stubbornness and obstinacy! Can honour teach any one to tell 
a lie, or can any honour exist independent of religion?” 

This discourse happened at table when dinner was just ended; 
and there were present Mr Allworthy, Mr Thwackum, and a 
third gentleman, who now entered the debate. The name of this 
gentleman, who had then resided some time at Mr Allworthy’s 
house, was Mr Square. His natural parts were not of the 
first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned educa- 
tion. He was deeply read in the ancients, and a profest master 
of all the works of Plato and Aristotle. Upon which great 
models he had principally formed himself; sometimes according 
with the opinion of the one, and sometimes with that of the 
other. In morals he was a profest Platonist, and in religion he 
inclined to be an Aristotelian. 

This gentleman and Mr Thwackum scarce ever met without 
a disputation ; for their tenets were indeed diametrically opposite 
to each other. Square held human nature to be the perfection of 
all virtue, and that vice was a deviation from our nature, in the 
same manner as deformity of body is. Thwackum, on the con- 
trary, maintained that the human mind, since the fall, was 
nothing but a sink of iniquity, till purified and redeemed by 
grace. In one point only they agreed, which was, in all their 
discourses on morality never to mention the word goodness. The 
favourite phrase of the former, was the natural beauty of vir- 
tue; that of the latter, was the divine power of grace. The 
former measured all actions by the unalterable rule of right, 
and the eternal fitness of things; the latter decided all matters 
by authority; but in doing this, he always used the scriptures 
and their commentators, as the lawyer doth his Coke upon 
Lyttleton, where the comment is of equal authority with the 
text. 

After this short introduction, the reader will be pleased to 
remember, that the parson had concluded his speech with a tri- 
umphant question, to which he had apprehended no answer; 
viz., Can any honour exist independent of religion? 

To this Square answered, that it was impossible to discourse 
philosophically concerning words, till their meaning was first 


44 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


established: that there were scarce any two words of a more 
vague and uncertain signification, than the two he had men- 
tioned; for that there were almost as many different opinions 
concerning honour, as concerning religion. 

“But,” says he, “if by honour you mean the true natural 
beauty of virtue, I will maintain it may exist independent of 
any religion whatever. Nay,” added he, “you yourself will 
allow it may exist independent of all but one : so will a Mahome- 
tan, a Jew, and all the maintainers of all the different sects in 
the world.” 

Thwackum replied, this was arguing with the usual malice 
of all the enemies to the true Church. He said, he doubted not 
but that all the infidels and hereticks in the world would, if 
they could, confine honour to their own absurd errors and dam- 
nable deceptions. 

“But honour,” says he, “is not therefore manifold, because 
there are many absurd opinions about it ; nor is religion manifold 
because there are various sects and heresies in the world. When 
I mention religion, I mean the Christian religion; and not only 
the Christian religion, but the Protestant religion ; and not only 
the Protestant religion, but the Church of England. And when 
I mention honour, I mean that mode of Divine grace which is 
not only consistent with, but dependent upon, this religion ; and 
is consistent with and dependent upon no other. Now to say 
that the honour I here mean, and which was, I thought, all the 
honour I could be supposed to mean, will uphold, much less dic- 
tate an untruth, is to assert an absurdity too shocking to be 
conceived.” 

“I purposely avoided,” says Square, “drawing a conclusion 
which I thought evident from what I have said ; but if you per- 
ceived it, I am sure you have not attempted to answer it. How- 
ever, to drop the article of religion, I think it is plain, from 
what you have said, that we have different ideas of honour; or 
why do we not agree in the same terms of its explanation? I 
have asserted, that true honour and true virtue are almost 
synonymous terms, and they are both founded on the unalterable 
rule of right, and the eternal fitness of things; to which an un- 
truth being absolutely repugnant and contrary, it is certain that 
true honour cannot support an untruth. In this, therefore, I 
think we are agreed; but that this honour can be said to be 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


45 

founded on religion, to which it is antecedent, if by religion be 
meant any positive law ” 

“I agree,” answered Thwackum, with great warmth, “with 
a man who asserts honour to be antecedent to religion ! Mr 
Allworthy, did I agree ?” 

He was proceeding when Mr Allworthy interposed, telling 
them very coldly, they had both mistaken his meaning; for that 
he had said nothing of true honour. — It is possible, however, he 
would not have easily quieted the disputants, who were growing 
equally warm, had not another matter now fallen out, which 
put a final end to the conversation at present. 

This matter was no other than a quarrel between Master 
Blifil and Tom Jones, the consequence of which had been a 
bloody nose to the former; for though Master Blifil, notwith- 
standing he was the younger, was in size above the other’s match, 
yet Tom was much his superior at the noble art of boxing. 

Tom, however, cautiously avoided all engagements with that 
youth; for besides that Tommy Jones was an inoffensive lad 
amidst all his roguery, and really loved Blifil, Mr Thwackum 
being always the second of the latter, would have been sufficient 
to deter him. 

But well says a certain author, No man is wise at all hours; 
it is therefore no wonder that a boy is not so. A difference 
arising at play between the two lads, Master Blifil called Tom 
a beggarly bastard. Upon which the latter, who was some- 
what passionate in his disposition, immediately caused that 
phenomenon in the face of the former, which we have above 
remembered. 

Master Blifil now, with his blood running from his nose, and 
the tears galloping after from his eyes, appeared before his 
uncle and the tremendous Thwackum. In which court an in- 
dictment of assault, battery, and wounding, was instantly pre- 
ferred against Tom ; who in his excuse only pleaded the provoca- 
tion, which was indeed all the matter that Master Blifil had 
omitted. 

It is indeed possible that this circumstance might have escaped 
his memory ; for, in his reply, he positively insisted, that he had 
made use of no such appellation; adding, Heaven forbid such 
naughty words should ever come out of his mouth! 

Tom, though against all form of law, rejoined in affirmance 
of the words. Upon which Master Blifil said, “It is no wonder. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


46 

Those who will tell one fib, will hardly stick at another. If I 
had told my master such a wicked fib as you have done, I should 
be ashamed to show my face.” 

“What fib, child?” cries Thwackum pretty eagerly. 

“Why, he told you that nobody was with him a shooting 
when he killed the partridge; but he knows” (here he burst into 
a flood of tears), “yes, he knows, for he confessed it to me, that 
Black George the gamekeeper was there. Nay, he said — yes you 
did — deny it if you can, that you would not have confest the 
truth, though master had cut you to pieces.” 

At this the fire flashed from Thwackum’s eyes, and he cried 
out in triumph — “Oh! ho! this is your mistaken notion of 
honour! This is the boy who was not to be whipped again!” 

But Mr Allworthy, with a more gentle aspect, turned 
towards the lad, and said, “Is this true, child? How came you 
to persist so obstinately in a falsehood ?” 

Tom said, he scorned a lie as much as any one: but he 
thought his honour engaged him to act as he did; for he had 
promised the poor fellow to conceal him: which, he said, he 
thought himself farther obliged to, as the gamekeeper had begged 
him not to go into the gentleman’s manor, and had at last gone 
himself, in compliance with his persuasions. He said, this was 
the whole truth of the matter, and he would take his oath of it ; 
and concluded with very passionately begging Mr Allworthy 
to have compassion on the poor fellow’s family, especially as he 
himself had been guilty, and the other had been very difficultly 
prevailed on to do what he did. 

Mr Allworthy hesitated a few moments, and then dismissed 
the boys, advising them to live more friendly and peaceably to- 
gether. 

It is probable, that by disclosing this secret, which had been 
communicated in the utmost confidence to him, young Blifil pre- 
served his companion from a good lashing ; for the offence of the 
bloody nose would have been of itself sufficient cause for 
Thwackum to have proceeded to correction; but now this was 
totally absorbed in the consideration of the other matter; and 
with regard to this, Mr All worthy declared privately, he 
thought the boy deserved reward rather than punishment, so that 
Thwackum’s hand was withheld by a general pardon. 

Towards the gamekeeper the good man behaved with more 
severity. He presently summoned that poor fellow before him, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


47 


and after many bitter remonstrances, paid him his wages, and 
dismist him from his service ; for Mr Allworthy rightly observed, 
that there was a great difference between being guilty of a false- 
hood to excuse yourself, and to excuse another. He likewise 
urged, as the principal motive to his inflexible severity against 
this man, that he had basely suffered Tom Jones to undergo so 
heavy a punishment for his sake, whereas he ought to have 
prevented it by making the discovery himself. 

There is yet another childish incident which we feel bound 
to relate. The reader may remember that Allworthy gave Tom 
Jones a little horse, as a kind of smart-money for the punishment 
which he imagined he had suffered innocently. This horse Tom 
kept above half a year, and then rode him to a neighbouring 
fair, and sold him. 

At his return, being questioned by Thwackum what he had 
done with the money for which the horse was sold, he frankly 
declared he would not tell him. 

“Oho!” says Thwackum, “you will not! then I will have it 
out of your breech;” that being the place to which he always 
applied for information on every doubtful occasion. 

Tom was now mounted on the back of a footman, and every- 
thing prepared for execution, w T hen Mr All worthy, entering 
the room, gave the criminal reprieve, and took him with him in- 
to another apartment; where, being alone with Tom, he put the 
same question to him which Thwackum had before asked him. 

Tom answered, he could in duty refuse him nothing; but as 
for that tyrannical rascal, he would never make him any other 
answer than with a cudgel, with which he hoped soon to be able 
to pay him for all his barbarities. 

Mr Allworthy very severely reprimanded the lad for his 
indecent and disrespectful expressions concerning his master; and 
then permitted him to proceed, which he did as follows: — 

“Indeed, my dear sir, I love and honour you more than all 
the world. Could the little horse you gave me speak, I am 
sure he coukl tell you how fond I was of your present; for I 
had more pleasure in feeding him than in riding him. Indeed, 
sir, it went to my heart to part with him ; nor would I have sold 
him upon any other account in the world than what I did. 
You yourself, sir, I am convinced, in my case, would have done 
the same : for none ever so sensibly felt the misfortunes of others. 
What would you feel, dear sir, if you thought yourself the 


48 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

occasion of them? Indeed, sir, there never was any misery like 
theirs.” 

“Like whose, child?” says Allworthy: “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, sir!” answered Tom, “your poor gamekeeper, with all 
his large family, ever since your discarding him, have been per- 
ishing with all the miseries of cold and hunger: I could not 
bear to see these poor wretches naked and starving, and at the 
same time know myself to have been the occasion of all their 
sufferings. I sold the horse for them, and they have every 
farthing of the money.” 

Mr Allworthy now stood silent for some moments, and be- 
fore he spoke the tears started from his eyes. He at length dis- 
missed Tom with a gentle rebuke, advising him for the future 
to apply to him in cases of distress, rather than to use extraor- 
dinary means of relieving them himself. 

It hath been observed by some man of much greater reputa- 
tion for wisdom than myself, that misfortunes seldom come 
single. Thus it happened to poor Tom; who was no sooner 
pardoned for selling the horse, than he was discovered to have 
some time before sold a fine Bible which Mr Allworthy gave 
him, the money arising from which sale he had disposed of in the 
same manner. This Bible Master Blifil had purchased, though 
he had already such another of his own, partly out of respect for 
the book, and partly out of friendship to Tom, being unwilling 
that the Bible should be sold out of the family at half-price. He 
therefore deposited the said half-price himself ; for he was a very 
prudent lad, and so careful of his money, that he had laid up al- 
most every penny which he had received from Mr All worthy. 

Some people have been noted to be able to read in no book 
but their own. On the contrary, from the time when Master 
Blifil was first possessed of this Bible, he never used any other. 
Nay, he was seen reading in it much oftener than he had before 
been in his own. Now, as he frequently asked Thwackum to 
explain difficult passages to him, that gentleman unfortunately 
took notice of Tom’s name, which was written in many parts 
of the book. This brought on an inquiry, which obliged Master 
Blifil to discover the whole matter. 

Thwackum was resolved a crime of this kind, which he called 
sacrilege, should not go unpunished. He therefore proceeded 
immediately to castigation: and not contented with that he ac- 
quainted Mr Allworthy, at their ftext meeting, with this mon- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


49 

strous crime, as it appeared to him: inveighing against Tom in 
the most bitter terms, and likening him to the buyers and sellers 
who were driven out of the temple. 

Square saw this matter in a very different light. He said, 
he could not perceive any higher crime in selling one book than 
in selling another. That to sell Bibles was strictly lawful by 
all laws both Divine and human, and consequently there was no 
unfitness in it. He told Thwackum, that his great concern on 
this occasion brought to his mind the story of a very devout 
woman, who, out of pure regard to religion, stole Tillotson’s 
Sermons from a lady of her acquaintance. 

This story caused a vast quantity of blood t-o rush into the 
parson’s face, which of itself was none of the palest ; and he was 
going to reply with great warmth and anger, had not Mrs 
Blifil, who was present at this debate, interposed. That lady 
declared herself absolutely of Mr Square’s side. She argued, 
indeed, very learnedly in support of his opinion ; and concluded 
with saying, if Tom had been guilty of any fault, she must con- 
fess her own son appeared to be equally culpable; for that she 
could see no difference between the buyer and the seller; both 
of whom were alike to be driven out of the temple. 

Mrs Blifil having declared her opinion, put an end to the de- 
bate. Square’s triumph would almost have stopt his words, had 
he needed them; and Thwackum, who durst not venture at 
disobliging the lady, was almost choaked with indignation. As 
to Mr Allworthy, he said, since the boy had been already pun- 
ished he would not deliver his sentiments on the occasion; and 
whether he was or was not angry with the lad, I must leave to 
the reader’s own conjecture. 

Soon after this, an action was brought against the gamekeeper 
by Squire Western (the gentleman in whose manor the partridge 
was killed) , for depredations of the like kind. This was a most 
unfortunate circumstance for the fellow, as it not only of itself 
threatened his ruin, but actually prevented Mr Allworthy from 
restoring him to his favour: for as that gentleman was walking 
out one evening with Master Blifil and young Jones, the latter 
slily drew him to the habitation of Black George; where the 
family of that poor wretch, namely, his wife and children, were 
found in all the misery with which cold, hunger, and nakedness, 
can affect human creatures; for as to the money they had re- 
ceived from Jones, former debts had consumed almost the whole. 


50 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Such a scene as this could not fail of affecting the heart of Mr 
Allworthy, and on their return home, Tom made use of all his 
eloquence to display the wretchedness of these people, and the 
penitence of Black George himself; and in this he succeeded so 
well, that Mr Allworthy said, he thought the man had suffered 
enough for what was past ; that he would forgive him, and think 
of some means of providing for him and his family. 

Master Blifil, though he had kept silence in the presence 
of Jones, yet, when he had better considered the matter, could by 
no means endure the thought of suffering his uncle to confer 
favours on the undeserving. He therefore resolved immediately 
to acquaint him with a fact, the truth of which was as follows : 

The gamekeeper, about a year after he was dismissed from 
Mr Allworthy’s service, and before Tom’s selling the horse, be- 
ing in want of bread, either to fill his own mouth or those of his 
family, as he passed through a field belonging to Mr Western 
espied a hare sitting in her form. This hare he had basely and 
barbarously knocked on the head, against the laws of the land, 
and no less against the laws of sportsmen. 

The higgler to whom the hare was sold, being unfortunately 
taken many months after with a quantity of game upon him, was 
obliged to make his peace with the squire, by becoming evidence 
against some poacher. And now Black George was pitched 
upon by him, as being a person already obnoxious to Mr West- 
ern, and one of no good fame in the country. He w*as, besides, 
the best sacrifice the higgler could make, as he had supplied him 
with no game since; and by this means the witness had an op- 
portunity of screening his better customers : for the squire, being 
charmed with the power of punishing Black George, whom a 
single transgression was sufficient to ruin, made no further 
enquiry. 

Had this fact been truly laid before Mr Allworthy, it might 
probably have done the gamekeeper very little mischief. But 
there is no zeal blinder than that which is inspired with the love 
of justice against offenders. Master Blifil had forgot the dis- 
tance of the time. He varied likewise in the manner of the fact : 
and by the hasty addition of the single letter S he considerably 
altered the story; for he said that George had wired hares. 
These alterations might probably have been set right, had not 
Master Blifil unluckily insisted on a promise of secrecy from Mr 
Allworthy before he revealed the matter to him; but by that 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


51 


means the poor gamekeeper was condemned without an oppor- 
tunity to defend himself : for as the fact of killing the hare, and 
of the action brought, were certainly true, Mr Allworthy had 
no doubt concerning the rest. 

As a consequence, Mr Allworthy the next morning declared 
he had fresh reason, without assigning it, for his anger, and 
strictly forbade Tom to mention George any more: though as 
for his family, he said he would endeavour to keep them from 
starving; but as to the fellow himself, he would leave him to 
the laws, which nothing could keep him from breaking. 

Tom could by no means divine what had incensed Mr All- 
worthy, for of Master Blifil he had not the least suspicion. 
However, as his friendship was to be tired out by no disappoint- 
ments, he now determined to try another method of preserving 
the poor gamekeeper from ruin. 

Jones was lately grown very intimate with Mr Western. He 
had so greatly recommended himself to that gentleman, by leap- 
ing over five-barred gates, and by other acts of sportsmanship, 
that the squire had declared Tom would certainly make a great 
man if he had but sufficient encouragement. By such kind of 
talents he had so ingratiated himself with the squire, that he 
was a most welcome guest at his table, and a favourite companion 
in his sport : everything which the squire held most dear, to wit, 
his guns, dogs, and horses, were now as much at the command of 
Jones, as if they had been his own. He resolved therefore to 
make use of this favour on behalf of his friend Black George, 
whom he hoped to introduce into Mr Western’s family, in the 
same capacity in which he had before served Mr All worthy. 

For this purpose, then, Tom applied to Mr Western’s daugh- 
ter, a young lady of about seventeen years of age, whom her 
father, next after those necessary implements of sport before men- 
tioned, loved and esteemed above all the world. Now, as she 
had some influence on the squire, so Tom had some little in- 
fluence on her. But this being the intended heroine of this work, 
a lady with whom we ourselves are greatly in love, and with 
whom many of our readers will probably be in love too, before 
we part, it is by no means proper she should make her appearance 
at the end of a chapter. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A short hint of wliat we can do in the sublime , and a description 
of Miss Sophia Western. 

JJUSHED be every ruder breath. May the heathen ruler of 
the winds confine in iron chains the boisterous limbs of 
noisy Boreas, and the sharp-pointed nose of bitter-biting 
Eurus. Do thou, sweet Zephyrus, rising from thy fragrant 
bed, mount the western sky, and lead on those delicious gales, 
the charms of which call forth the lovely Flora from her cham- 
ber, perfumed with pearly dews, when on the 1st of June, her 
birth-day, the blooming maid, in loose attire, gently trips it over 
the verdant mead, w T here every flower rises to do her homage, 
till the whole field becomes enamelled, and colours contend with 
sweets which shall ravish her most. 

So charming may she now appear! and you the feathered 
choristers of nature, whose sweetest notes not even Handel can 
excell, tune your melodious throats to celebrate her appearance. 
From love proceeds your music, and to love it returns. Awaken 
therefore that gentle passion in every swain: for lo! adorned 
with all the charms in which nature can array her; bedecked 
with beauty, youth, sprightliness, innocence, modesty, and ten- 
derness, breathing sweetness, from her rosy lips, and darting 
brightness from her sparkling eyes, the lovely Sophia comes ! 

Reader, perhaps thou hast seen the statue of the Venus de 
Medicis . Perhaps, too, thou hast seen the gallery of beauties at 
Hampton Court. Thou may’st remember each bright Churchill 
of the galaxy, and all the toasts of the Kit-cat. Or, if their reign 
was before thy times, at least thou hast seen their daughters, the 
no less dazzling beauties of the present age ; whose names, should 
we here insert, we apprehend they would fill the whole volume. 

Yet is it possible, my friend, that thou mayest have seen all 
these without being able to form an exact idea of Sophia; for 
she did not exactly resemble any of them. She was most like the 
picture of Lady Ranclagh: and, I have heard, more still to the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


53 


famous dutchess of Mazarine; but most of all she resembled one 
whose image never can depart from my breast, and whom, if 
thou dost remember, thou hast then, my friend, an adequate 
idea of Sophia. 

But lest this should not have been thy fortune, we will en- 
deavour with our utmost skill to describe this paragon, though 
we are sensible that our highest abilities are very inadequate to 
the task. 

Sophia, then, the only daughter of Mr Western, was a mid- 
dle-sized woman; but rather inclining to tall. Her shape was 
not only exact, but extremely delicate: and the nice proportion 
of her arms promised the truest symmetry in her limbs. Her 
hair, which was black, was so luxuriant, that it reached her mid- 
dle, before she cut it to comply with the modern fashion ; and it 
was now curled so gracefully in her neck, that few could believe 
it to be her own. Her eyebrows were full, even, and arched be- 
yond the power of art to imitate. Her black eyes had a lustre 
in them, which all her softness could not extinguish. Her nose 
was exactly regular, and her mouth, in which were two rows of 
ivory, exactly answered Sir John Sucklings description in those 
lines : — 

Her lips were red, and one was thin, 

Compar’d to that was next her chin. 

Some bee had stung it newly. 

Her cheeks were of the oval kind; and in her right she had a 
dimple, which the least smile discovered. Her complexion had 
rather more of the lily than of the rose; but when exercise or 
modesty increased her natural colour, no vermilion could equal 
it. Then one might indeed cry out wrth the celebrated Dr 
Donne : 

Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly wrought 
That one might almost say her body thought. 

Her neck was long and finely turned: and here, if I was not 
afraid of offending her delicacy, I might justly say, the highest 
beauties of the famous Venus de Medicis were outdone. Here 
was w T hiteness which no lilies, ivory, nor alabaster could match. 
The finest cambric might indeed be supposed from envy to cover 
that bosom which was much whiter than itself. 


54 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Such was the outside of Sophia; nor was this beautiful frame 
disgraced by an inhabitant unworthy of it. Her mind was every 
way equal to her person ; nay, the latter borrowed some charms 
from the former; for when she smiled, the sweetness of her 
temper diffused that glory over her countenance w r hich no regu- 
larity of features can give. But as there are no perfections of 
the mind which do not discover themselves in that perfect inti- 
macy to which we intend to introduce our reader with this 
charming young creature, so it is needless to mention them here : 
nay, it is a kind of tacit affront to our reader’s understanding, 
and may also rob him of that pleasure which he will receive in 
forming his own judgment of her character. 

It may, however, be proper to say, that whatever mental ac- 
complishments she had derived from nature, they were somewhat 
improved and cultivated by art : for she had been educated under 
the care of an aunt, who was a lady of great discretion, and was 
thoroughly acquainted with the world, having lived in her youth 
about the court, whence she had retired some years since into the 
country. 

The amiable Sophia was now in her eighteenth year. Her 
father, as hath been said, was fonder of her than of any other 
human creature. To her, therefore, Tom Jones applied, in 
order to engage her interest on the behalf of his friend the game- 
keeper. 

But before we proceed to this business, a short recapitulation 
of some previous matters may be necessary. 

Though the different tempers of Mr Allworthy and of Mr 
Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet 
they lived upon what is called a decent footing together; by 
which means the young people of both families had been ac- 
quainted from their infancy; and as they were all near of the 
same age, had been frequent playmates together. 

The gaiety of Tom’s temper suited better with Sophia, than 
the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the pre- 
ference which she gave the former of these, would often appear 
so plainly, that a lad of a more passionate turn than Master 
Blifil was, might have shown displeasure at it. 

As he did not, however, outwardly express any such disgust, 
it w r ould be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses 
of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most secret 
affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and cup- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 55 

boards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the 
world. 

However, as persons who suspect they have given others cause 
of offence, are apt to conclude they are offended; so Sophia im- 
puted an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the superior 
sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have arisen from 
a much better principle. 

Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a 
little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up, and 
taught to sing. 

Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so 
extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend it, 
and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means little 
Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame, that it 
would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch upon the 
finger, and lie contended in her bosom, where it seemed almost 
sensible of its own happiness; though she always kept a small 
string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the liberty of 
flying away. 

One day, when Mr Allworthy and his whole family dined at 
Mr Western’s, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little 
Sophia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed for 
her little bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his hands. 
Sophia presently complied w T ith the young gentleman’s request, 
and after some previous caution, delivered him her bird ; of which 
he was no sooner in possession, than he slipt the string from its 
leg and tossed it into the air. 

The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than 
forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew 
directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance. 

Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud, that Tom 
Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her 
assistance. 

He was no sooner informed of what had happened, than he 
cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal ; and then immediately 
stripping off his coat he applied himself to climbing the tree to 
which the bird escaped. 

Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the 
branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal, 
broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the 
water. 


56 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Sophia’s concern now changed its object. And as she appre- 
hended the boy’s life was in danger, she screamed ten times 
louder than before; and indeed Master Blifil himself now 
seconded her with all the vociferation in his power. 

The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden, 
were instantly alarmed, and came all forth; but just as they 
reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shal- 
low in that part) arrived safely on shore. 

Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dropping 
and shivering before him, when Mr Allworthy desired him to 
have patience; and turning to Master Blifil, said, “Pray, child, 
what is the reason of all this disturbance?” 

Master Blifil answered, “Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry for 
what I have done; I have been unhappily the occasion of it all. 
I had Miss Sophia’s bird in my hand, and thinking the poor 
creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear giving 
it what it desired; for I always thought there was something 
very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against the 
law of nature, by which everything hath a right to liberty ; nay, 
it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be done 
by; but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so much 
concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it; nay, if I 
had known what would have happened to the bird itself : for 
when Master Jones, wdio climbed up that tree after it, fell into 
the water, the bird took a second flight, and presently a nasty 
hawk carried it away.” 

Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy’s fate 
(for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it 
when it happened), shed a shower of tears. These Mr All- 
worthy endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer 
bird; but she declared she would never have another. Her 
father chid her for crying so for a foolish bird; but could not 
help telling young Blifil, if he was a son of his, his backside 
should be well flayed. 

“Parva leves capiunt animos — Small things affect light 
minds,” was the sentiment of a great master of the passion of 
love. And certain it is, that from this day Sophia began to have 
some little kindness for Tom Jones, and no little aversion for 
his companion. 

Many accidents from time to time improved both these pas- 
sions in her breast; which, without our recounting, the reader 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


57 


may well conclude, from what we have before hinted of the 
different tempers of these lads, and how much the one suited 
with her own inclinations more than the other. To say the 
truth, Sophia, when very young, discerned that Tom, though an 
idle, thoughtless, rattling rascal, was nobody’s enemy but his 
own; and that Master Blifil, though a prudent, discreet, sober 
young gentleman, was at the same time strongly attached to 
the interest only of one single person; and who that single 
person was the reader will be able to divine without any assist- 
ance of ours. 

Tom behaved to Sophia with no particularity, unless perhaps 
by showing her a higher respect than he paid to any other. This 
distinction her beauty, fortune, sense, and amiable carriage, 
seemed to demand ; but as to design upon her person he had 
none ; for which we shall at present suffer the reader to condemn 
him of stupidity ; but perhaps we shall be able indifferently well 
to account for it hereafter. 

Sophia, with the highest degree of innocence and modesty, 
had a remarkable sprightliness in her temper. This was so 
greatly increased whenever she was in company with Tom, that 
had he not been very young and thoughtless, he must have 
observed it: or had not Mr Western’s thoughts been generally 
either in the field, the stable, or the dog-kennel, it might have 
perhaps created some jealousy in him: but so far was the good 
gentleman from entertaining any such suspicions, that he gave 
Tom every opportunity with his daughter which any lover 
could have wished ; and this Tom innocently improved to better 
advantage, by following only the dictates of his natural gal- 
lantry and good-nature, than he might perhaps have done had he 
had the deepest designs on the young lady. 

But indeed it can occasion little wonder that this matter es- 
caped the observation of others, since poor Sophia herself never 
remarked it ; and her heart was irretrievably lost before she sus- 
pected it was in danger. 

Matters were in this situation, when Tom, one afternoon, 
finding Sophia alone, began, after a short apology, with a very 
serious face, to acquaint her that he had a favour to ask of her 
which he hoped her goodness would comply with. 

Though neither the young man’s behaviour, nor indeed his 
manner of opening this business, were such as could give her any 
just cause of suspecting he intended to make love to her; yet 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


53 

whether Nature whispered something into her ear, or from 
what cause it arose I will not determine; certain it is, some 
idea of that kind must have intruded itself; for her colour for- 
sook her cheeks, her limbs trembled, and her tongue would have 
faltered, had Tom stopped for an answ T er; but he soon relieved 
her from her perplexity, by proceeding to inform her of his 
request ; which was to solicit her interest on behalf of the game- 
keeper, whose own ruin, and that of a large family, must be, 
he said, the consequence of Mr Western’s pursuing his action 
against him. 

Sophia presently recovered her confusion, and, with a smile 
full of sweetness, said, “Is this the mighty favour you asked 
with so much gravity ? I will do it with all my heart. I really 
pity the poor fellow, and no longer ago than yesterday sent a 
small matter to his wife.” This small matter was one of her 
gowns, some linen, and ten shillings in money, of which Tom 
had heard, and it had, in reality, put this solicitation into his 
head. 

Our youth, now, emboldened with his success, resolved to push 
the matter farther, and ventured even to beg her recommenda- 
tion of him to her father’s service; protesting that he thought 
him one of the honestest fellows in the country, and extremely 
well qualified for the place of a gamekeeper, which luckily then 
happened to be vacant. 

Sophia answered, “Well, I will undertake this too; but I 
cannot promise you as much success as in the former part, which 
I assure you I will not quit my father without obtaining. And 
now, Mr Jones, I must ask you a favour.” 

“A favour, madam!” cries Tom: “if you knew the pleasure 
you have given me in the hopes of receiving a command from 
you, you would think by mentioning it you did confer the great- 
est favour on me; for by this dear hand I would sacrifice my 
life to oblige you.” 

He then snatched her hand, and eagerly kissed it, which was 
the first time his lips had ever touched her. The blood, which 
before had forsaken her cheeks, now made her sufficient amends, 
by rushing all over her face and neck with such violence, that 
they became all of a scarlet colour. She now first felt a sensa- 
tion to which she had been before a stranger, and which, when 
she had leisure to reflect on it, began to acquaint her with some 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


59 


secrets, which the reader, if he doth not already guess them, will 
know in due time. 

Sophia, as soon as she could speak (which was not instantly), 
informed him that the favour she had to desire of him was, not 
to lead her father through so many dangers in hunting ; for that, 
from what she had heard, she was terribly frightened every time 
they went out together, and expected some day or other to see 
her father brought home with broken limbs. She therefore 
begged him, for her sake, to be more cautious; and as he well 
knew Mr Western would follow him, not to ride so madly, nor 
to take those dangerous leaps for the future. 

Tom promised faithfully to obey her commands; and after 
thanking her for her kind compliance with his request, took 
his leave, and departed highly charmed with his success. 

It was Mr Western’s custom every afternoon, as soon as he 
was drunk, to hear his daughter play on the harpsichord; for 
he was a great lover of music, and perhaps, had he lived in town, 
might have passed for a connoisseur; for he always excepted 
against the finest compositions of Mr Handel. He never relished 
any music but what was light and airy; and indeed his most 
favourite tunes were Old Sir Simon the King, St George he was 
for England, Bobbing Joan, and some others. 

His daughter, though she was a perfect mistress of music, and 
would never willingly have played any but Handel’s, was so 
devoted to her father’s pleasure, that she learnt all those tunes 
to oblige him. However, she would now and then endeavour 
to lead him into her own taste; and when he required the re- 
petition of his ballads, would answer with a “Nay, dear sir;” 
and would often beg him to suffer her to play something else. 

This evening, however, when the gentleman was retired from 
his bottle, she played all his favourites three times over without 
any solicitation. This so pleased the good squire, that he started 
from his couch, gave his daughter a kiss, and swore her hand 
was greatly improved. She took this opportunity to execute her 
promise to Tom ; in which she succeeded so well, that the squire 
declared, if she would give him t’other bout of Old Sir Simon, 
he would give the gamekeeper his deputation the next morning. 
Sir Simon was played again and again, till the charms of the 
music soothed Mr Western to sleep. In the morning Sophia 
did not fail to remind him of his engagement ; and his attorney 


6o 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


was immediately sent for, ordered to stop any further proceedings 
in the action, and to make out the deputation. 

Tom’s success in this affair soon began to ring over the coun- 
try, and various were the censures passed upon it ; some greatly 
applauding it as an act of good nature; others sneering, and 
saying, “No wonder that one idle fellow should love another.” 
Young Blifil was greatly enraged at it. He had long hated 
Black George in the same proportion as Jones delighted in him; 
not from any offence which he had ever received, but from 
his great love to religion and virtue; — for Black George had 
the reputation of a loose kind of a fellow. Blifil therefore rep- 
resented this as flying in Mr Allworthy’s face; and declared, 
with great concern, that it was impossible to find any other mo- 
tive for doing good to such a wretch. 

Thwackum and Square likewise sung to the same tune. All- 
worthy was not, however, moved with their malice. He de- 
clared himself very well satisfied with what Jones had done. 
He said the perseverance and integrity of his friendship was 
highly commendable, and he wished he could see more frequent 
instances of that virtue. 

But Fortune, who seldom greatly relishes such sparks as my 
friend Tom, perhaps because they do not pay more ardent ad- 
dresses to her, gave now a very different turn to all his actions, 
and showed them to Mr Allworthy in a light far less agreeable 
than that gentleman’s goodness had hitherto seen them in. 


CHAPTER VII. 


An apology for the insensibility of Mr Jones to all the charms 
of the lovely $ophia . 

^JpHERE are two sorts of people, who, I am afraid, have 
already conceived some contempt for my hero, on account 
of his behaviour to Sophia. The former of these will blame 
his prudence in neglecting an opportunity to possess himself 
of Mr Western’s fortune; and the latter will no less de- 
spise him for his backwardness to so fine a girl, who seemed 
ready to fly into his arms, if he would open them to receive her. 

Now, though I shall not perhaps be able absolutely to acquit 
him of either of these charges (for want of prudence admits 
of no excuse ; and what I shall produce against the latter 
charge will, I apprehend, be scarce satisfactory) ; yet, as evi- 
dence may sometimes be offered in mitigation, I shall set forth 
the plain matter of fact, and leave the whole to the reader’s 
determination. 

Mr Jones had somewhat about him, which though I think 
writers are not thoroughly agreed in its name, doth certainly 
inhabit some human breasts; whose use is not so properly to 
distinguish right from wrong, as to prompt and incite them to 
the former, and to restrain and withhold them from the latter. 

Our hero, whether he derived it from Thwackum or Square 
I will not determine, was very strongly under the guidance 
of this principle; for though he did not always act rightly, 
yet he never did otherwise without feeling and suffering for 
it. It was this which taught him, that to repay the civilities 
and little friendships of hospitality by robbing the house where 
you have received them, is to be the basest and meanest of 
thieves. He did not think the baseness of this offence lessened 
by the height of the injury committed; on the contrary, if to 
steal another’s plate deserved death and infamy, it seemed to 
him difficult to assign a punishment adequate to the robbing a 
man of his whole fortune, and of his child into the bargain, 


62 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


This principle, therefore, prevented him from any thought 
of making his fortune by such means (for this, as I have said, 
is an active principle, and doth not content itself with knowl- 
edge or belief only). Had he been greatly enamoured of So- 
phia, he possibly might have thought otherwise; but give me 
leave to say, there is great difference between running away 
with a man’s daughter from the motive of love, and doing the 
same thing from the motive of theft. 

Now, though this young gentleman was not insensible of 
the charms of Sophia; though he greatly liked her beauty, and 
esteemed all her other qualifications, she had made, how- 
ever, no deep impression on his heart; for which, as it renders 
him liable to the charge of stupidity, or at least of want of 
taste, we shall now proceed to account. 

The truth then is, his heart was in the possession of another 
woman. Here I question not but the reader will be surprized 
at our long taciturnity as to this matter; and quite at a loss 
to divine who this woman was, since we have hitherto not 
dropt a hint of any one likely to be a rival to Sophia. That 
the reader may be no longer in suspense, he will be pleased to 
remember, that we have often mentioned the family of George 
Seagrim (commonly called Black George, the gamekeeper), 
which consisted at present of a wife and five children. The 
second of these children was a daughter, whose name was 
Molly, and who was esteemed one of the handsomest girls 
in the whole country. 

The beauty of this girl made, however, no impression on 
Tom, till she grew towards the age of sixteen, when Tom, 
who was near three years older, began first to cast the eyes 
of affection upon her. And this affection he had fixed on 
the girl long before he could bring himself to attempt the 
possession of her person: for though his constitution urged him 
greatly to this, his principles no less forcibly restrained him. 
To debauch a young woman, however low her condition was, 
appeared to him a very heinous crime; and the good-will he 
bore the father, with the compassion he had for his family, 
very strongly corroborated all such sober reflections; so that 
he once resolved to get the better of his inclinations, and he 
actually abstained three whole months without ever going to 
Seagrim’s house, or seeing his daughter. 

Now, though Molly was, as we have said, generally thought 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


63 


a very fine girl, and in reality she was so, yet her beauty was 
not of the most amiable kind. It had, indeed, very little of 
feminine in it, and would have become a man at least as well 
as a woman ; for, to say the truth, youth and florid health had 
a very considerable share in the composition. 

Nor was her mind more effeminate than her person. As 
this was tall and robust, so was that bold and forward. So 
little had she of modesty, that Jones had more regard for her 
virtue than she herself. And as most probably she liked Tom 
as well as he liked her, so when she perceived his backward- 
ness she herself grew proportionately forward ; and when she 
saw he had entirely deserted the house, she found means of 
throwing herself in his way, and behaved in such a manner 
that the youth must have had very much or very little of the 
hero if her endeavours had proved unsuccessful. In a word, 
she soon triumphed over all the virtuous resolutions of Jones; 
for though she behaved at last with all decent reluctance, yet 
I rather chuse to attribute the triumph to her, since, in fact, 
it was her design which succeeded. 

In the conduct of this matter, I say, Molly so well played 
her part, that Jones attributed the conquest entirely to himself, 
and considered the young woman as one who had yielded to the 
violent attacks of his passion. He likewise imputed her yield- 
ing to the ungovernable force of her love towards him; and 
this the reader will allow to have been a very natural and prob- 
able supposition, as we have more than once mentioned the 
uncommon comeliness of his person: and, indeed, he was one 
of the handsomest young fellows in the world. 

This, then, was the true reason of that insensibility which 
he had shown to the charms of Sophia, and that behaviour in 
her which might have been reasonably enough interpreted as 
an encouragement to his addresses; for as he could not think 
of abandoning his Molly, poor and destitute as she was, so no 
more could be entertain a notion of betraying such a creature 
as Sophia. 

Her mother first perceived the alteration in the shape of 
Molly ; and in order to hide it from her neighbors, she foolishly 
clothed her in that sack which Sophia had sent her; though, 
indeed, that young lady had little apprehension that the poor 
woman would have been weak enough to let any of her daugh- 
ters wear it in that form. 


64 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Molly was charmed with the first opportunity she ever had 
of showing her beauty to advantage; for though she could very 
well bear to contemplate herself in the glass, even when dressed 
in rags; and though she had in that dress conquered the heart 
of Jones, and perhaps of some others ; yet she thought the addi- 
tion of finery would much improve her charms, and extend her 
conquests. 

Molly, therefore, having dressed herself out in this sack, with 
a new laced cap, and some other ornaments which Tom had 
given her, repairs to church with her fan in her hand the very 
next Sunday. She had seated herself some time before she 
was known by her neighbours. And then a whisper ran 
through the whole congregation, “Who is she?” but when she 
was discovered, such sneering, giggling, tittering, and laugh- 
ing ensued among the women, that Mr All worthy was obliged 
to exert his authority to preserve decency among them. 

Mr Western had an estate in this parish; and as his house 
stood at little greater distance from this church than from 
his own, he very often came to Divine Service here ; and both he 
and the charming Sophia happened to be present at this time. 

Sophia was much pleased with the beauty of the girl, whom 
she pitied for her simplicity in having dressed herself in that 
manner, as she saw the envy which it had occasioned among 
her equals. She no sooner came home than she sent for the 
gamekeeper, and ordered him to bring his daughter to her; 
saying she would provide for her in the family, and might pos- 
sibly place the girl about her own person, when her own maid, 
who was now going away, had left her. 

Poor Seagrim was thunderstruck at this; for he was no 
stranger to the fault in the shape of his daughter. He an- 
swered, in a stammering voice, that he was afraid Molly would 
be too awkward to wait on her ladyship, as she had never 
been at service. 

“No matter for that,” says Sophia; “she will soon improve. 
I am pleased with the girl, and am resolved to try her.” 

Black George now repaired to his wife, on whose prudent 
counsel he depended to extricate him out of this dilemma; but 
when he came thither he found his house in some confusion 
So great envy had this sack occasioned, that when Mr All- 
worthy and the other gentry had gone from church, the rage, 
which had hitherto been confined, burst into an uproar; and, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


65 

having vented itself at first in opprobrious words, laughs, 
hisses, and gestures, betook itself at last to certain missile wea- 
pons; which, though from their plastic nature they threatened 
neither the loss of life or of limb, were however sufficiently 
dreadful to a well-dressed lady. 

Molly, having endeavoured in vain to make a handsome re- 
treat, faced about; and laying hold of ragged Bess, who ad- 
vanced in the front of the enemy, she at one blow felled her 
to the ground. The whole army of the enemy (though near 
a hundred in number), seeing the fate of their general, gave 
back many paces, and retired behind a new-dug grave; for the 
church-yard was the field of battle, where there was to be a 
funeral that very evening. Molly pursued her victory, and 
catching up a skull which lay on the side of the grave, dis- 
charged it with such fury, that having hit a taylor on the head, 
the two skulls sent equally forth a hollow sound at their meet- 
ing, and the taylor took presently the measure of his length 
on the 'ground, where the skulls lay side by side, and it was 
doubtful which was the more valuable of the two. Molly 
then taking a thigh-bone in her hand, fell in among the flying 
ranks, and dealing her blows with great liberality on either 
side, overthrew’ the carcass of many a mighty hero and heroine. 
Not that the strenuous arm of Molly reached all these; for 
many of them in their flight overthrew each other. 

But now Fortune, fearing she had acted out of character, 
and had inclined too long to the same side, especially as it was 
the right side, hastily turned about: for now Goody Brown 
flew at Molly and easily wrenched the thigh-bone from her 
hand, at the same time clawing off her cap from her head. 
Then laying hold of the hair of Molly with her left hand, 
she attacked her so furiously in the face with the right, that 
the blood soon began to trickle from her nose. Molly was 
not idle this wffiile. She soon removed the clout from the 
head of Goody Brown, and then fastening on her hair with 
one hand, with the other she caused another bloody stream 
to issue forth from the nostrils of the enemy. 

When each of the combatants had borne off sufficient spoils 
of hair from the head of her antagonist, the next rage was 
against the garments. In this attack they exerted so much vio- 
lence, that in a very few minutes they were both naked to the 
middle. 


66 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


It is lucky for the women that the seat of fistycuff war is 
not the same with them as among men ; but though they may 
seem a little to deviate from their sex, when they go forth to 
battle, yet I have observed, they never so far forget, as to assail 
the bosoms of each other; where a few blows would be fatal 
to most of them. Goody Brown had great advantage of 
Molly in this particular; for the former had indeed no breasts, 
her bosom (if it may be so called), as well in colour as in 
many other properties, exactly resembling an ancient piece of 
parchment, upon which any one might have drummed a con- 
siderable while without doing her any great damage. 

Molly, beside her present unhappy condition, was differ- 
ently formed in those parts, and might, perhaps, have tempted 
the envy of Brown to give her a fatal blow, had not the lucky 
arrival of Tom Jones at this instant put an immediate end 
to the bloody scene. 

This accident was luckily owing to Mr Square; for he, 
Master Blifil, and Jones, had mounted their horses, after 
church, to take the air, and had ridden about a quarter of a 
mile, when Square, changing his mind (not idly, but for a 
reason which we shall unfold as soon as we have leisure), 
desired the young gentlemen to ride with him another way 
than they had at first purposed. This motion being com- 
plied with, brought them of necessity back again to the church- 
yard. 

Master Blifil, who rode first, seeing such a mob assembled, 
and two women in the posture in which we left the combat- 
ants, stopt his horse to enquire what was the matter. A coun- 
try fellow, scratching his head, answered him: “I don’t know, 
measter, un’t I ; an’t please your honour, here hath been a 
vight, I think, between Goody Brown and Moll Seagrim.” 

“Who, who?” cries Tom; but without waiting for an an- 
swer, having discovered the features of his Molly through all 
the discomposure in which they now were, he hastily alighted, 
turned his horse loose, and, leaping over the wall, ran to her. 
She now first bursting into tears, told him how barbarously 
she had been treated. Upon which, forgetting the sex of 
Goody Brown, or perhaps not knowing it in his rage — for, in 
reality, she had no feminine appearance but a petticoat, which 
he might not observe — he gave her a lash or two with his 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 67 

horsewhip ; and then flying at the mob, who were all accused 
by Moll, he dealt his blows profusely on all sides. 

Having scoured the whole coast of the enemy, as well as any 
of Homer’s heroes ever did, or as Don Quixote or any knight- 
errant in the world could have done, he returned to Molly, 
whom he found in a condition which must give both me and 
my reader pain, was it to be described here. Tom raved like 
a madman, beat his breast, tore his hair, stamped on the ground, 
and vowed the utmost vengeance on all who had been con- 
cerned. He then pulled off his coat, and buttoned it round 
her, put his hat upon her head, wiped the blood from her face 
as well as he could with his handkerchief, and called out to 
the servant to ride as fast as possible for a side-saddle, or a 
pillion, that he might carry her safe home. 

Master Blifil objected to the sending aw T ay the servant, as 
they had only one with them ; but as Square seconded the order 
of Jones, he was obliged to comply. 

The servant returned in a very short time with the pillion, 
and Molly, having collected her rags as well as she could, was 
placed behind him. In which manner she was carried home, 
Square, Blifil, and Jones attending. 

Here Jones having received his coat, given her a sly kiss, 
and whispered her that he would return in the evening, quitted 
his Molly, and rode on after his companions. 

Molly had no sooner apparelled herself in her accustomed 
rags, than her sisters began to fall violently upon her, particu- 
larly her eldest sister, who told her she was well enough served. 

“How had she the assurance to wear a gown which young 
Madam Western had given to mother! If one of us was to 
wear it, I think,” says she, “I myself have the best right ; but I 
warrant you think it belongs to your beauty. I suppose you 
think yourself more handsomer than any of us.” 

“Hand her down the bit of glass from over the cupboard,” 
cries another; “I’d wash the blood from my face before I 
talked of my beauty.” 

“You’d better have minded what the parson says,” cries the 
eldest, “and not a harkened after men voke.” 

“Indeed, child, and so she had,” says the mother, sobbing: 
“she hath brought a disgrace upon us all. She’s the vurst of 
the vamily that ever was a whore.” 

“You need not upbraid me with that, mother,” cries Molly; 


68 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“you yourself was brought- to-bed of sister there, within a week 
after you was married.” 

“Yes, hussy,” answered the enraged mother, “so I was, and 
what was the mighty matter of that? I was made an honest 
woman then; and if you was to be made an honest woman, 
I should not be angry ; but you must have to doing with a gen- 
tleman, you nasty slut; you will have a bastard, hussy, you 
will ; and that I defy any one to say of me.” 

In this situation Black George found his family, when he 
came home for the purpose before mentioned. As his wife and 
three daughters were all of them talking together, and most of 
them crying, it was some time before he could get an opportunity 
of being heard; but as soon as such an interval occurred, he 
acquainted the company with what Sophia had said to him. 
Goody Seagrim then began to revile her daughter afresh. 

“Here,” says she, “you have brought us into a fine quandary 
indeed. What will madam say to that big belly? Oh that ever 
I should live to see this day!” 

Molly answered with great spirit, “And what is this mighty 
place which you have got for me, father? I suppose it is to 
be under the cook; but I shan’t wash dishes for anybody. My 
gentleman will provide better for me. See what he hath given 
me this afternoon. He hath promised I shall never want mon- 
ey; and you shan’t want money neither, mother, if you will 
hold your tongue, and know when you are well.” 

And so saying, she pulled out several guineas, and gave her 
mother one of them. The good woman no sooner felt the gold 
within her palm, than her temper began (such is the efficacy 
of that panacea) to be mollified. 

“Why, husband,” says she, “would any but such a block- 
head as you not have enquired what place this was before he 
had accepted it? Perhaps, as Molly says, it may be in the 
kitchen; and truly I don’t care my daughter should be a scul- 
lion wench; for, poor as I am, I am a gentlewoman. And thof 
I was obliged, as my father, who was a clergyman, died worse 
than nothing, and so could not give me a shilling of portion, to 
undervalue myself by marrying a poor man; yet I would have 
you to know, I have a spirit above all them things. Marry come 
up! it would better become Madam Western to look at home, 
and remember who her own grandfather was. Some cf my 
family, for aught I know, might ride in their coaches, when 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


69 

the grandfathers of some yoke walked a-voot. I warrant she 
fancies she did a mighty matter, when she sent us that old 
gownd ; some of my family would not have picked up such 
rags in the street; but poor people are always trampled upon. 
— The parish need not have been in such a fluster with Molly. 
You might have told them, child, your grandmother wore bet- 
ter things new out of the shop.” 

“Well, but consider,” cried George, “what answer shall I 
make to madam?” 

“I don’t know what answer,” says she; “you are always 
bringing your family into one quandary or other. Do you re- 
member when you shot the partridge, the occasion of all our 
misfortunes? Did not I advise you never to go into Squire 
Western’s manor? Did not I tell you many a good year ago 
what would come of it? But you would have your own head- 
strong ways; yes, you would, you villain.” 

Black George was, in the main, a peaceable kind of fellow, 
and nothing choleric nor rash ; yet did he bear about him some- 
thing of what the ancients called the irascible, and which his 
wife, if she had been endowed with much wisdom, would have 
feared. He had long experienced, that when the storm grew 
very high, arguments were but wind, which served rather to 
increase, than to abate it. He was therefore seldom unpro- 
vided with a small switch, a remedy of wonderful force, as he 
had often essayed, and which the word villain served as a hint 
for his applying. 

No sooner, therefore, had this symptom appeared, than he had 
immediate recourse to the said remedy, which though, as it is 
usual in all very efficacious medicines, it at first seemed to 
heighten and inflame the disease, soon produced a total calm, 
and restored the patient to perfect ease and tranquillity. 

A council was now called, in which, after many debates, 
Molly still persisting that she would not go to service, it was 
at length resolved, that Goody Seagrim herself should wait on 
Miss Western, and endeavour to procure the place for her 
eldest daughter, who declared great readiness to accept it: but 
Fortune, who seems to have been an enemy of this little family, 
put a stop to her promotion in the following manner. 

The next morning Tom Jones hunted with Mr Western 
and was at his return invited by that gentleman to dinner. 

The lovely Sophia shone forth that day with more gaiety 


70 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


and sprightliness than usual. Her battery was certainly lev- 
elled at our hero ; though, I believe, she herself scarce yet knew 
her own intention ; but if she had any design of charming him, 
she now succeeded. 

Mr Supple, the curate of Mr Allworthy’s parish, made one 
of the company. He was a good-natured worthy man; but 
chiefly remarkable for his great taciturnity at table, though his 
mouth was never shut at it. In short, he had one of the best 
appetites in the world. However, the cloth was no sooner 
taken away, than he always made sufficient amends for his 
silence : for he was a very hearty fellow ; and his conversation 
was often entertaining, never offensive. 

At his first arrival, which was immediately before the en- 
trance of the roast-beef, he had given an intimation that he had 
brought some news with him, and was beginning to tell, that he 
came that moment from Mr All worthy’s, when the sight of 
the roast-beef struck him dumb, permitting him only to say 
grace, and to declare he must pay his respect to the baronet, 
for so he called the sirloin. 

When dinner was over, being reminded by Sophia of his 
news, he began as follows: “I believe, lady, your ladyship ob- 
served a young woman at church yesterday at even-song, who 
was drest in one of your outlandish garments. She created 
so much confusion in the congregation, that if Squire Allworthy 
had not silenced it, it would have interrupted the service: for 
I was once about to stop in the middle of the first lesson. How- 
beit, nevertheless, after prayer was over, and I was departed 
home, this occasioned a battle in the churchyard, where, 
amongst other mischief, the head of a travelling fidler was 
very much broken. This morning the fidler came to Squire 
Allworthy for a warrant, and the wench was brought before 
him. The squire was inclined to have compounded matters; 
when, lo! on a sudden the wench appeared (I ask your lady- 
ship’s pardon) to be, as it were, at the eve of bringing forth a 
bastard. The squire demanded of her w T ho was the father? 
But she pertinaciously refused to make any response. So that 
he was about to make her mittimus to Bridewell when I de- 
parted.” 

“And is a wench having a bastard all your news, doctor?” 
cries Western; “I thought it might have been some public mat- 
ter, something about the nation.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


71 


“I am afraid it is too common, indeed,” answered the par- 
son; “but I thought the whole story altogether deserved com- 
memorating. As to national matters, your worship knows them 
best. My concerns extend no farther than my own parish.” 

“Why, ay,” says the squire, “I believe I do know a little of 
that matter, as you say. But, come, Tommy, drink about; the 
bottle stands with you.” 

Tom begged to be excused, for that he had particular busi- 
ness; and getting up from table, escaped the clutches of the 
squire, who was rising to stop him, and went off with very 
little ceremony. 

The squire gave him a good curse at his departure ; and then 
turning to the parson, he cried out, “I smoke it: I smoke it. 
Tom is certainly the father of this bastard. Zooks, parson, 
you remember how he recommended the veather o’ her to me. 
D — n un, what a sly b — ch ’tis. Ay, ay, as sure as two-pence, 
Tom is the veather of the bastard.” 

“I should be very sorry for that,” says the parson. 

“Why sorry,” cries the squire: “Where is the mighty matter 
o’t? What, I suppose dost pretend that thee hast never got 
a bastard? Pox! more good luck’s thine!” 

“Your worship is pleased to be jocular,” answered the par- 
son; “but I do not only animadvert on the sinfulness of the 
action — though that surely is to be greatly deprecated — but 
I fear his unrighteousness may injure him with Mr Allworthy.” 

“Poogh !” says the squire: “Injury, with Allworthy! Why, 
Allworthy loves a wench himself. Doth not all the country 
know whose son Tom is? You must talk to another person in 
that manner. I remember Allworthy at college.” 

“I thought,” said the parson, “he had never been at the uni- 
versity.” 

“Yes, yes, he was,” says the squire: “and many a wench 
have we two had together. No, no. It will do’n no harm with 
he, assure j^ourself; nor with anybody else. Ask Sophy there 
— Y ou have not the worse opinion of a young fellow for getting 
a bastard, have you, girl? No, no, the women will like un 
the better for’t.” 

This was a cruel question to poor Sophia. She had observed 
Tom’s colour change at the parson’s story; and that, with his 
hasty and abrupt departure, gave her sufficient reason to think 
her father’s suspicions not groundless. Her heart now at once 


72 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


discovered the great secret to her which it had been so long 
disclosing by little and little; and she found herself highly in- 
terested in this matter. In such a situation, her father’s mal- 
apert question rushing suddenly upon her, produced some symp- 
toms which might have alarmed a suspicious heart; but, to do 
the squire justice, that was not his fault. When she rose there- 
fore from her chair, and told him a hint from him was always 
sufficient to make her withdraw, he suffered her to leave the 
room, and then with great gravity of countenance remarked, 
that it was better to see a daughter over-modest than over- 
forward; — a sentiment which was highly applauded by the 
parson. 

But to return to Tom. He had ridden one of Mr Western’s 
horses that morning in the chase; so that having no horse of 
his own in the squire’s stable, he was obliged to go home on 
foot: this he did so expeditiously that he ran upwards of three 
miles within the half-hour. 

Just as he arrived at Mr Allworthy’s outward gate, he met 
the constable and company with Molly in their possession, 
whom they were conducting to the house of correction. Tom 
was no sooner informed by the constable whither they were 
proceeding (indeed he pretty well guessed it of himself), than 
he caught Molly in his arms, and embracing her tenderly be- 
fore them all, swore he would murder the first man who offered 
to lay hold of her. He bid her dry her eyes and be comforted ; 
for, wherever she went, he would accompany her. Then turn- 
ing to the constable, who stood trembling with his hat off, he 
desired him, in a very mild voice, to return with him for a 
moment only to his father (for so he now called Allworthy) ; 
for he durst, he said, be assured, that, when he had alleged what 
he had to say in her favour, the girl would be discharged. 

The constable, who, I make no doubt, would have surren- 
dered his prisoner had Tom demanded her, very readily con- 
sented to this request. So back they all went into Mr All- 
worthy’s hall; where Tom desired them to stay till his return, 
and then went himself in pursuit of the good man. As soon as 
he was found, Tom threw himself at his feet, and having 
begged a patient hearing, confessed himself to be the father of 
the child of which Molly was then big. He entreated him to 
have compassion on the poor girl, and to consider, if there was 
any guilt in the case, it lay principally at his door. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


73 


“If there is any guilt in the case!” answered Allworthy 
warmly: “Are you then so profligate and abandoned a libertine 
to doubt whether the breaking the laws of God and man, the 
corrupting and ruining a poor girl be guilt? I own, indeed, 
it doth lie principally upon you; and so heavy it is, that you 
ought to expect it should crush you.” 

“Whatever may be my fate,” says Tom, “let me succeed in 
my intercessions for the poor girl. I confess I have corrupted 
her! but whether she shall be ruined, depends on you. For 
Heaven’s sake, sir, revoke your warrant, and do not send her 
to a place which must unavoidably prove her destruction.” 

Allworthy hesitated some time, and at last said, “Well, I 
will discharge my mittimus. — You may send the constable to 
me.” He was instantly called, discharged, and so was the girl. 

Allworthy was sufficiently offended by this transgression of 
Jones; for notwithstanding the assertions of Mr Western, it is 
certain this worthy man had never indulged himself in any 
loose pleasures with women, and greatly condemned the vice 
of incontinence in others. Indeed, there is much reason to im- 
agine that there was not the least truth in what Mr Western 
affirmed, especially as he laid the scene of those impurities at the 
university, where Mr Allworthy had never been. In fact, the 
good squire was a little too apt to indulge that kind of pleas- 
antry which is generally called rhodomontade ; but which may, 
with as much propriety, be expressed by a much shorter word. 

But whatever detestation Mr Allworthy had to this or to 
any other vice, he was not so blinded by it but that he could 
discern any virtue in the guilty person, as clearly indeed as if 
there had been no mixture of vice in the same character. While 
he was angry therefore with the incontinence of Jones, he was 
no less pleased with the honour and honesty of his self-accu- 
sation. He began now to form in his mind the same opinion 
of this young fellow, which, we hope, our reader may have 
conceived. And in balancing his faults with his perfections, 
the latter seemed rather to preponderate. 

It was to no purpose, therefore, that Thwackum, who was 
immediately charged by Mr Blifil with the story, unbended all 
his rancour against poor Tom. Allworthy gave a patient hear- 
ing to their invectives, and then answered coldly: that young 
men of Tom’s complexion were too generally addicted to this 
vice; but he believed that youth was sincerely affected with 


74 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


what he had said to him on the occasion, and he hoped he 
would not transgress again. So that, as the days of whipping 
were at an end, the tutor had no other vent but his own mouth 
for his gall, the usual poor resource of impotent revenge. 

But Square, who while a less violent, was a much more 
artful man, embraced this opportunity of injuring Jones in the 
tenderest part, by giving a very bad turn to all these before- 
mentioned occurrences. 

“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “to own I have been deceived as 
well as yourself. I could not, I confess, help being pleased 
with what I ascribed to the motive of friendship, though it 
was carried to an excess, and all excess is faulty and vicious : 
but in this I made allowance for youth. Little did I suspect 
that the sacrifice of truth, which we both imagined to have been 
made to friendship, was in reality a prostitution of it to a de- 
praved and debauched appetite. You now plainly see whence 
all the seeming generosity of this young man to the family of 
the gamekeeper proceeded. He supported the father in order 
to corrupt the daughter, and preserved the family from starv- 
ing, to bring one of them to shame and ruin. This is friend- 
ship! this is generosity!” 

The goodness of Allworthy had prevented those considera- 
tions from occurring to himself; yet were they too plausible to 
be absolutely and hastily rejected, when laid before his eyes by 
another. It was well perhaps for poor Tom, that no such sug- 
gestions had been made before he was pardoned; for they cer- 
tainly stamped in the mind of Allworthy the first bad impres- 
sion concerning Jones. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Containing much clearer matters; but which flowed from the 
same fountain with those in the preceding chapter. 

T HE reader will be pleased, I believe, to return with me 
to Sophia. She passed the night, after we saw her last, 
in no very agreeable manner. Sleep befriended her but 
little, and dreams less. In the morning, when Mrs Honour, 
her maid, attended her at the usual hour, she was found already 
up and drest. 

Persons who live two or three miles’ distance in the country 
are considered as next-door neighbours, and transactions at the 
one house fly with incredible celerity to the other. Mrs Hon- 
our, therefore, had heard the whole story of Molly’s shame; 
which she, being of a very communicative temper, had no sooner 
entered the apartment of her mistress, than she began to relate 
in the following manner : — 

“La, ma’am, what doth your la’ship think? the girl that your 
la’ship saw at church on Sunday, whom you thought so hand- 
some; though you would not have thought her so handsome 
neither, if you had seen her nearer, but to be sure she hath 
been carried before the justice for being big with child. She 
seemed to me to look like a confident slut: and to be sure she 
hath laid the child to young Mr Jones. And all the parish 
says Mr Allworthy is so angry with young Mr Jones, that he 
won’t see him. To be sure, one can’t help pitying the poor 
young man, and yet he doth not deserve much pity neither, for 
demeaning himself with such kind of trumpery. Yet he is so 
pretty a gentleman, I should be sorry to have him turned out 
of doors. I dares to swear the wench was as willing as he ; for 
she was always a forward kind of body. And when wenches 
are so coming, young men are not so much to be blamed neither; 
for to be sure they do no more than what is natural. Indeed 
it is beneath them to meddle with such dirty draggle-tails ; and 
whatever happens to them, it is good enough for them. And 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


76 

yet, to be sure, the vile baggages are most in fault. I wishes, 
with all my heart, they were well to be whipped at the cart’s 
tail ; for it is pity they should be the ruin of a pretty young gen- 
tleman ; and nobody can deny but that Mr Jones is one of the 
most handsomest young men that ever ” 

She was running on thus, when Sophia, with a more peevish 
voice than she had ever spoken to her in before, cried, “Prithee, 
why dost thou trouble me with all this stuff? What concern 
have I in what Mr Jones doth? I suppose you are all alike. 
And you seem to me to be angry it was not your own case.” 

“I, ma’am!” answered Mrs Honour, “I am sorry your lady- 
ship should have such an opinion of me. I am sure nobody can 
say any such thing of me. All the young fellows in the world 
may go to the divil for me. Because I said he was a handsome 
man? Everybody says it as well as I. To be sure, I never 
thought as it was any harm to say a young man was handsome ; 
but to be sure I shall never think him so any more now ; for 
handsome is that handsome does. A beggar wench ! ” 

“Stop thy torrent of impertinence,” cries Sophia, “and* see 
whether my father wants me at breakfast.” 

Mrs Honour then flung out of the room, muttering much 
to herself, of which “Marry come up, I assure you,” was all 
that could be plainly distinguished. 

Whether Mrs Honour really deserved that suspicion, of 
which her mistress gave her a hint, is a matter which we cannot 
indulge our reader’s curiosity by resolving. We will, how- 
ever, make him amends in disclosing what passed in the mind 
of Sophia. 

The reader will be pleased to recollect, that a secret affection 
for Mr Jones had insensibly stolen into the bosom of this 
young lady. That it had there grown to a pretty great height 
before she herself had discovered it. When she first began to 
perceive its symptoms, the sensations were so sweet and pleas- 
ing, that she had not resolution sufficient to check or repel 
them; and thus she went on cherishing a passion of which sne 
never once considered the consequences. 

This incident relating to Molly first opened her eyes. She 
now first perceived the weakness of which she had been guilty; 
and though it caused the utmost perturbation in her mind, yet 
it had the effect of other nauseous physic, and for the time ex- 
pelled her distemper, Its operation indeed was most wonder- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


77 


fully quick; and in the short interval, while her maid was ab- 
sent, so entirely removed all symptoms, that when Mrs Honour 
returned with a summons from her father, she was become per- 
fectly easy* and fancied she had brought herself to a thorough 
indifference for Mr Jones. But Fortune, who had other de- 
signs in her head, soon put an end to this imagined security. 

Mr Western, who grew every day fonder and fonder of 
Sophia, ended by insisting on her riding a hunting with him. 
Sophia, to whom her father’s word was a law, readily com- 
plied with his desires, though she had not the least delight in a 
sport, which w~as of too rough and masculine a nature to suit 
with her disposition. 

The strongest objection was that which would have formerly 
been an inducement to her, namely, the frequent meeting with 
young Jones, whom she had determined to avoid; but as the 
end of the hunting season now approached, she hoped, by a short 
absence with her aunt, to reason herself entirely out of her 
unfortunate passion; and had not any doubt of being able to 
meet him in the field the subsequent season without the least 
danger. 

On the second day of her hunting, as she was returning from 
the chase, and was arrived within a little distance from Mr 
Western’s house, her horse, whose mettlesome spirit required 
a better rider, fell suddenly to prancing and capering in such 
a manner that she was in the most imminent peril of falling. 
Tom Jones, who was at a little distance behind, saw this, and 
immediately galloped up to her assistance. As soon as he came 
up, he leapt from his own horse, and caught hold of hers by 
the bridle. The unruly beast presently reared himself an end 
on his hind legs, and threw his lovely burthen from his back, 
and Jones caught her in his arms. 

She was so affected with the fright, that she was not immedi- 
ately able to satisfy Jones, who was very solicitous to know 
whether she had received any hurt. She soon after, however, 
recovered her spirits, assured him she was safe, and thanked 
him for the care he had taken of her. 

Jones answered, “If I have preserved you, madam, I am suf- 
ficiently repaid; for I promise you, I would have secured you 
from the least harm at the expense of a much greater misfor- 
ture to myself than I have suffered on this occasion.” 


78 


THE HISTORY OF TOM TONES. 


“What misfortune?” replied Sophia eagerly; “I hope you 
have come to no mischief?” 

“Be not concerned, madam,” answered Jones. “Heaven be 
praised you have escaped so well, considering the danger you 
was in. If I have broke my arm, I consider it as a trifle, in 
comparison of what I feared upon your account.” 

Sophia then screamed out, “Broke your arm! Heaven for- 
bid.” 

“I am afraid I have, madam,” says Jones: “but I beg you 
will suffer me first to take care of you. I have a right hand 
yet at your service, to help you into the next field, whence we 
have but a very little walk to your father’s house.” 

Sophia seeing his left arm dangling by his side, while he was 
using the other to lead her, no longer doubted of the truth. 
She now grew much paler than her fears for herself had made 
her before. All her limbs were seized with a trembling, inso- 
much that Jones could scarce support her; and as her thoughts 
were in no less agitation, she could not refrain from giving 
Jones a look so full of tenderness, that it almost argued a 
stronger sensation in her mind, than even gratitude and pity 
united can raise in the gentlest female bosom, without the 
assistance of a third more powerful passion. 

Mr Western, who was advanced at some distance when this 
accident happened, was now returned, as were the rest of the 
horsemen. Sophia immediately acquainted them with what had 
befallen Jones, and begged them to take care of him. Upon 
which Western, who had been much alarmed by meeting his 
daughter’s horse without its rider, and was now overjoyed to 
find her unhurt, cried out, “I am glad it is no worse. If Tom 
hath broken his arm, we will get a joiner to mend un again.” 

The squire alighted from his horse, and proceeded to his 
house on foot, with his daughter and Jones. An impartial 
spectator, who had met them on the way, would, on viewing 
their several countenances, have concluded Sophia alone to have 
been the object of compassion: for as to Jones, he exulted in 
having probably saved the life of the young lady, at the price 
only of a broken bone; and Mr Western, though he was not 
unconcerned at the accident which had befallen Jones, was, 
however, delighted in a much higher degree with the fortunate 
escape of his daughter. 

The generosity of Sophia’s temper construed this behaviour 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


79 


of Jones into great bravery; and it made a deep impression 
on her heart : for certain it is, that there is no one quality which 
so generally recommends men to women as this; and, indeed, 
after much enquiry into the matter, I am inclined to believe, 
that, at this very time, the charming Sophia made no less im- 
pression on the heart of Jones; to say truth, he had for some 
time become sensible of the irresistible power of her charms. 

When they arrived at Mr Western’s hall, Sophia, who 
had tottered along with much difficulty, sunk down in her 
chair; but by the assistance of hartshorn and water, she was 
prevented from fainting away, and had pretty well re- 
covered her spirits, when the surgeon who was sent for to Jones 
appeared. Mr Western, who imputed these symptoms in his 
daughter to her fall, advised her to be presently blooded by 
way of prevention. In this opinion he was seconded by the 
surgeon, who gave so many reasons for bleeding, and quoted 
so many cases where persons had miscarried for want of it, that 
the squire became very importunate, and indeed insisted peremp- 
torily that his daughter should be blooded. 

Sophia soon yielded to the commands of her father, though 
entirely contrary to her own inclinations, for she suspected, I 
believe, less danger from the fright, than either the squire or 
the surgeon. She then stretched out her beautiful arm, and 
the operator began to prepare for his work. 

While the servants were busied in providing materials, the 
surgeon, who imputed the backwardness which had appeared in 
Sophia to her fears, began to comfort her with assurances that 
there was not the least danger; for no accident, he said, could 
ever happen in bleeding, but from the monstrous ignorance 
of pretenders to surgery, which he pretty plainly insinuated 
was not at present to be apprehended. 

Sophia declared she was not under the least apprehension; 
adding, “If you open an artery, I promise you I’ll forgive you.” 

“Will you?” cries Western: “D — n me, if I will. If he does 
thee the least mischief, d — n me, if I don’t ha’ the heart’s blood 
o’ un out.” 

The surgeon assented to bleed her upon these conditions, and 
then proceeded to his operation, which he performed with as 
much dexterity as he had promised ; and with as much quickness: 
for he took but little blood from her, saying, it was much safer 
to bleed again and again than to take away too much at once. 


8o 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Sophia, when her arm was bound up, retired : for she was not 
willing (nor was it, perhaps, strictly decent) to be present at the 
operation on Jones. The surgeon now ordered his patient to be 
stript to his shirt, and as soon as the broken bone was set, Jones 
was ordered into a bed, which Mr Western compelled him to 
accept at his own house, and sentence of water-gruel was passed 
upon him. 

Among the good company which had attended in the hall 
during the bone-setting, Mrs Honour was one; who being sum- 
moned to her mistress as soon as it was over, and asked by her 
how the young gentleman did, presently launched into extrava- 
gant praises on the magnanimity, as she called it, of his behav- 
iour, which, she said, was so charming in so pretty a creature. 
She then burst forth into much warmer encomiums on the beauty 
of his person ; enumerating many particulars, and ending with 
the whiteness of his skin. 

This discourse had an effect on Sophia’s countenance, which 
would not perhaps have escaped the observance of the sagacious 
waiting-woman, had she once looked her mistress in the face, 
all the time she was speaking: but as a looking-glass, which was 
most commodiously placed opposite to her, gave her an oppor- 
tunity of surveying those features, in which, of all others, she 
took most delight; so she had not once removed her eyes from 
that amiable object during her whole speech. 

Mrs Honour was so entirely wrapped up in the subject on 
which she exercised her tongue, and the object before her eyes, 
that she gave her mistress time to conquer her confusion ; which 
having done, she smiled on her maid, and told her, she was cer- 
tainly in love with this young fellow. 

“I in love, madam !” answers she : “upon my word, ma’am, I 
assure you, ma’am, upon my soul, ma’am, I am not.” 

“Why, if you was,” cries her mistress, “I see no reason that 
you should be ashamed of it; for he is certainly a pretty fel- 
low.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the other, “that he is, the most hand- 
somest man I ever saw in my life. Yes, to be sure, that he is, 
and, as your ladyship says, I don’t know why I should be 
ashamed of loving him, though he is my betters. To be sure, 
gentlefolks are but flesh and blood no more than us servants. 
Besides, as for Mr Jones, thof Squire Allworthy hath made a 
gentleman of him, he was not so good as myself by birth: for 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


81 

thof I am a poor body, I am an honest person’s child, and my 
father and mother were married, which is more than some peo- 
ple can say, as high as they hold their heads. Marry, come up ! 
I assure you, my dirty cousin ! thof his skin be so white, and to 
be sure it is the most whitest that ever was seen, I am a Chris- 
tian as well as he, and nobody can say that I am base born : my 
grandfather was a clergyman, and would have been very angry, 
I believe, to have thought any of his family should have taken 
up with Molly Seagrim’s dirty leavings.” 

Perhaps Sophia might have suffered her maid to run on in this 
manner, from wanting sufficient spirits to stop her tongue, which 
the reader may probably conjecture was no very easy task; for 
certainly there were some passages in her speech which were far 
from being agreeable to the lady. However, she now checked 
the torrent, as there seemed no end of its flowing. 

“I wonder,” says she, “at your assurance in daring to talk thus 
of one of my father’s friends. As to the wench, I order you never 
to mention her name to me. And with regard to the young gen- 
tleman’s birth, those who can say nothing more to his disadvan- 
tage may as well be silent on that head, as I desire you will be 
for the future.” 

“I am sorry I have offended your ladyship,” answered Mrs 
Honour. “I am sure I hate Molly Seagrim as much as your 
ladyship can ; and as for abusing Squire Jones, I can call all the 
servants in the house to witness, that whenever any talk' hath 
been about bastards, I have always taken his part; for which of 
you, says I to the footmen, would not be a bastard, if he could, 
to be made a gentleman of? And, says I, I am sure he is a very 
fine gentleman; and he hath one of the whitest hands in the 
world ; for to be sure so he hath : and, says I, one of the sweetest 
temperedest, best naturedest men in the world he is; and, says 
I, all the servants and neighbours all round the country loves 
him. And, to be sure, I could tell your ladyship something, but 
that I am afraid it would offend you.” 

“What could you tell me, Honour?” says Sophia. 

“Nay, ma’am, to be sure he meant nothing by it, therefore I 
would not have your ladyship be offended.” 

“Prithee tell me,” says Sophia; “ I will know it this instant.” 

“Why, ma’am,” answered Mrs. Honour, “he came into the 
room one day last week when I was at work, and there lay your 
ladyship’s muff on a chair, and to be sure he put his hands into 


82 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


it; that very muff your ladyship gave me but yesterday. La! 
says I, Mr Jones, you will stretch my lady’s muff, and spoil it: 
but he still kept his hands in it: and then he kissed it — to be 
sure I hardly ever saw such a kiss in my life as he gave it. ’ 

“I suppose he did not know it was mine,” replied Sophia. 

“Your ladyship shall hear, ma’am. He kissed it again and 
again, and said it was the prettiest muff in the world. La! sir, 
„ says I, you have seen it a hundred times. Yes, Mrs Honour, 
cried he ; but who can see anything beautiful in the presence of 
your lady but herself? — Nay, that’s not all neither; but I hope 
your ladyship won’t be offended, for to be sure he meant noth- 
ing. One day, as your ladyship was playing on the harpsichord 
to my master, Mr Jones was sitting in the next room, and me- 
thought he looked melancholy. La! says I, Mr Jones, what’s 
the matter? a penny for your thoughts, says I. Why, hussy, 
says he, starting up from a dream, what can I be thinking of, 
when that angel your mistress is playing? And then squeezing 
me by the hand, Oh ! Mrs Honour, says he, how happy will that 
man be! — and then he sighed. Upon my troth, his breath is as 
sweet as a nosegay. — But to be sure he meant no harm by it. 
So I hope your ladyship will not mention a word ; for he gave 
me a crown never to mention it, and made me swear upon a 
book, but I believe, indeed, it was not the Bible.” 

Till something of a more beautiful red than vermilion be 
found out, I shall say nothing of Sophia’s colour on this occasion. 

“Ho — nour,” says she, “I — if you will not mention this any 
more to me — nor to anybody else, I will not betray you — I mean, 
I will not be angry; but I am afraid of your tongue. Why, my 
girl, will you give it such liberties?” 

“Nay, ma’am,” answered she, “to be sure, I would sooner 
cut out my tongue than offend your ladyship. To be sure I shall 
never mention a word that your ladyship would not have me.” 

“Why, I would not have you mention this any more,” said 
Sophia, “for it may come to my father’s ears, and he would be 
angry with Mr Jones; though I really believe, as you say, he 
meant nothing. I should be very angry myself, if I im- 
agined ” 

“Nay, ma’am,” says Honour, “I protest I believe he meant 
nothing. I thought he talked as if he was out of his senses ; nay, 
he said he believed he was beside himself when he had spoken 
the words. Ay, sir, says I, I believe so too. Yes, says he, Horn 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 83 

our.— But I ask your ladyship’s pardon ; I could tear my tongue 
out for offending you.” 

“Go on,” says Sophia; “you may mention anything you have 
not told me before.” 

“Yes, Honour, says he (this was some time afterwards, when 
he gave me the crown) , I am neither such a coxcomb, or such a 
villain as to think of her in any other delight but as my goddess ; 
as such I will always worship and adore her while I have breath. 
— This was all, ma’am, I will be sworn, to the best of my re- 
membrance. I was in a passion with him myself, till I found he 
meant no harm.” 

“Indeed, Honour,” says Sophia, “I believe you have a real af- 
fection for me. I was provoked the other day when I gave you 
warning; but if you have a desire to stay with me, you shall.” 

“To be sure, ma’am,” answered Mrs Honour, “I shall never 
desire to part with your ladyship. To be sure, I almost cried 
my eyes out when you gave me warning. It would be very un- 
grateful in me to desire to leave your ladyship ; because as why, 
I should never get so good a place again. I am sure I would 
live and die with your ladyship; for, as poor Mr Jones said, 
happy is the man ” 

Here the dinner bell interrupted a conversation which had 
wrought such an effect on Sophia, that she was, perhaps, more 
obliged to her bleeding in the morning, than she, at the time, had 
apprehended she should be. As to the present situation of her 
mind, I shall adhere to a rule of Horace, by not attempting to 
describe it, from despair of success. Most of my readers will 
suggest it easily to themselves; and the few who cannot, would 
not understand the picture, or at least would deny it to be 
natural, if ever so well drawn. 


CHAPTER IX. 


In which Mr Jones receives many friendly visits during his con- 
finement; with some fine touches of the passion of love, ' 
scarce visible to the naked eye. 

^pOM Jones had many visitors during his confinement, 
though some, perhaps, were not very agreeable to him. Mr 
Allworthy saw him almost every day; but though he pitied 
Tom’s sufferings, and greatly approved the gallant behaviour 
which had occasioned them; yet he thought this was a favour- 
able opportunity to bring him to a sober sense of his indiscreet 
conduct ; and that wholesome advice for that purpose could never 
be applied at a more proper season than at the present, when 
the mind was softened by pain and sickness, and alarmed by 
danger; and when its attention was unembarrassed with those 
turbulent passions which engage us in the pursuit of pleasure. 

Thwackum was likewise pretty assiduous in his visits ; and he 
too considered a sick-bed to be a convenient scene for lectures. 
His style, however, was more severe than Mr Allworthy’s: he 
told his pupil, that he ought to look on his broken limb as a 
judgment from heaven on his sins. That it would become him 
to be daily on his knees, pouring forth thanksgivings that he 
had broken his arm only, and not his neck ; which latter, he said, 
was very probably reserved for some future occasion, and that, 
perhaps, not very remote. 

Square talked in a very different strain ; he said, such accidents 
as a broken bone were below the consideration of a wise man, 
and that pain, which was the worst consequence of such ac- 
cidents, was the most contemptible thing in the world; with 
more of the like sentences, extracted out of the second book of 
Tully’s Tusculan questions, and from the great Lord Shaftes- 
bury. In pronouncing these he was one day so eager, that he 
unfortunately bit his tongue ; and in such a manner, that it not 
only put an end to his discourse, but created much emotion in 
him, and caused him to mutter an oath or two: but what was 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


85 

worst of all, this accident gave Thwackum, who was present, 
and who held all such doctrine to be heathenish and atheistical, 
an opportunity to clap a judgment on his back. 

Mr Blifil visited his friend Jones but seldom, and never alone, 
This worthy young man, however, professed much regard for 
him, and as great concern at his misfortune; but cautiously 
avoided any intimacy, lest, as he frequently hinted, it might 
contaminate the sobriety of his own character : for which purpose 
he had constantly in his mouth that proverb in which Solomon 
speaks against evil communication. 

As to Squire Western, he was seldom out of the sick-room, 
unless when he was engaged either in the field or over his bot- 
tle. Nay, he would sometimes retire hither to take his beer, and 
it was not without difficulty that he was prevented from forcing 
Jones to take his beer too. He was, however, by much entreaty, 
prevailed on to forbear the application of this medicine; but 
from serenading his patient every hunting morning with the 
horn under his window, it was impossible to withhold him ; nor 
did he ever lay aside that hallow, with which he entered into all 
companies, when he visited Jones, without any regard to the sick 
person’s being at that time either awake or asleep. 

This boisterous behaviour, as it meant no harm, so happily it 
effected none, and was abundantly compensated to Jones, as 
soon as he was able to sit up, by the company of Sophia, whom 
the squire then brought to visit him ; nor was it, indeed, long be- 
fore Jones was able to attend her to the harpsichord, where she 
would kindly condescend, for hours together, to charm him 
with the most delicious music, unless when the squire thought 
proper to interrupt her, by insisting on Old Sir Simon, or some 
other of his favourite pieces. 

Notwithstanding the nicest guard which Sophia endeavoured 
to set on her behaviour, she could not avoid letting some appear- 
ances now and then slip forth : for love may again be likened to a 
disease in this, that when it is denied a vent in one part, it will 
certainly break out in another. What her lips, therefore, con- 
cealed, her eyes, her blushes, and many little involuntary actions, 
betrayed. 

One day, when Sophia was playing on the harpsichord, and 
Jones was attending, the squire came into the room, 
crying, “There, Tom, I have had a battle for thee below-stairs 
with thick parson Thwackum. He hath been a telling All- 


86 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


worthy, before my face, that the broken bone was a judgment 
upon thee. D — n it, says I, how can that be? Did he not 
come by it in defence of a young woman? A judgment indeed! 
Pox, if he never doth anything worse, he will go to heaven 
sooner than all the parsons in the country. He hath more rea- 
son to glory in it than to be ashamed of it.” 

“Indeed, sir,” says Jones, “I have no reason for either; but if 
it preserved Miss Western, I shall always think it the happiest 
accident of my life.” 

“And to gu,” said the squire, “to zet Allworthy against thee 
vor it! D — n un, if the parson had unt his petticuoats on, I 
should have lent un o flick ; for I love thee dearly, my boy, and 
d — n me if there is anything in my power which I won’t do for 
thee. Sha’t take thy choice of all the horses in my stable to- 
morrow morning, except only the Chevalier and Miss Slouch. 
Nay,” added the squire, “sha’t ha the sorrel mare that Sophy 
rode. She cost me fifty guineas, and comes six years old this 
grass.” 

“If she had cost me a thousand,” cries Jones passionately, “I 
would have given her to the dogs.” 

“Pooh! pooh!” answered Western; “what! because she broke 
thy arm? Shoudst forget and forgive. I thought hadst been 
more a man than to bear malice against a dumb creature.” 

Here Sophia interposed, and put an end to the conversation, 
by desiring her father’s leave to play to him ; a request which he 
never refused. 

The countenance of Sophia had undergone more than one 
change during the foregoing speeches ; and probably she imputed 
the passionate resentment which Jones had expressed against the 
mare, to a different motive from that from which her father had 
derived it. Her spirits were at this time in a visible flutter; and 
she played so intolerably ill, that had not Western soon fallen 
asleep, he must have remarked it. Jones, however, who was 
sufficiently awake, and was not without an ear any more than 
without eyes, made some observations; which being joined to all 
which the reader may remember to have passed formerly, gave 
him pretty strong assurances, when he came to reflect on the 
whole, that all was not well in the tender bosom of Sophia; an 
opinion which many young gentlemen will, I doubt not, ex- 
tremely wonder at his not having been w^ell confirmed in long 
ago. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


87 

The reader will perhaps imagine the sensations which now 
arose in Jones to have been so sweet and delicious, that they 
would rather tend to produce a cheerful serenity in the mind, 
but in fact, sensations of this kind, however delicious, are, at 
their first recognition, of a very tumultuous nature, and have 
very little of the opiate in them. They were, moreover, in the 
present case, embittered with certain circumstances, which being 
mixed with sweeter ingredients, tended altogether to compose a 
draught that might be termed bitter-sweet ; than which, as noth- 
ing can be more disagreeable to the palate, so nothing, in the 
metaphorical sense, can be so injurious to the mind. 

For first, though he had sufficient foundation to flatter him- 
self in what he had observed in Sophia, he was not yet free from 
doubt of misconstruing compassion, or at best, esteem, into a 
warmer regard. Besides, if he could hope to find no bar to his 
happiness from the daughter, he thought himself certain of meet- 
ing an effectual bar in the father ; who, though he was a country 
squire in his diversions, was perfectly a man of the world in 
whatever regarded his fortune ; had the most violent affection for 
his only daughter, and had often signified, in his cups, the pleas- 
ure he proposed in seeing her married to one of the richest men 
in the county. Jones was not so vain and senseless a coxcomb 
as to expect, from any regard which Western had professed for 
him, that he would ever be induced to lay aside these views of 
advancing his daughter. 

As he had therefore no hopes of obtaining her father’s con- 
sent; so he thought to endeavour to succeed without it, and by 
such means to frustrate the great point of Mr Western’s life, 
was to make a very ill use of his hospitality, and a very ungrate- 
ful return to the many little favours received (however roughly) 
at his hands. If he saw such a consequence with horror and 
disdain, how much more was he shocked with what regarded 
Mr Allworthy; to whom, as he had more than filial obligations, 
so had he for him more than filial piety! He knew the nature 
of that good man to be so averse to any baseness or treachery, 
that the least attempt of such a kind would make the sight of 
the guilty person for ever odious to his eyes, and his name a de- 
testable sound to his ears. 

The appearance of such unsurmountable difficulties was suf- 
ficient to have inspired him with despair, however ardent his 
wishes had been ; but even these were controlled by compassion 


88 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


for another woman. The idea of lovely Molly now intruded 
itself before him. He had sworn eternal constancy in her arms, 
and she had as often vowed never to out-live his deserting her. 
He now saw her in all the most shocking postures of death; nay, 
he considered all the miseries of prostitution to which she would 
be liable, and of which he would be doubly the occasion ; first by 
seducing, and then by deserting her; for he well knew the 
hatred which all her neighbours, and even her own sisters, bore 
her, and how ready they would all be to tear her to pieces. 
Indeed, his own good heart pleaded her cause; not as a cold 
venal advocate, but as one interested in the event, and which 
must itself deeply share in all the agonies its owner brought on 
another. 

Amidst these thoughts, poor Jones passed a long sleepless 
night, and in the morning the result of the whole was to abide 
by Molly, and to think no more of Sophia. In this virtuous reso- 
lution he continued all the next day till Mrs Honour came into 
his room, and finding him alone, began in the following man- 
ner: — “La, sir, where do you think I have been? I warrants 
you, you would not guess in fifty years ; but if you did guess, to 
be sure I must not tell you neither.” 

“Nay, if it be something which you must not tell me,” said 
Jones, “I shall have the curiosity to enquire, and I know you 
will not be so barbarous to refuse me.” 

“I don’t know,” cries she, “why I should refuse you neither, 
for that matter ; for to be sure you won’t mention it any more. 
And for that matter, if you knew where I have been, unless you 
knew what I have been about, it would not signify much. Nay, 
I don’t see why it should be kept a secret for my part ; for to be 
sure she is the best lady in the world.” 

Upon this, Jones began to beg earnestly to be let into this 
secret, and faithfully promised not to divulge it. She then pro- 
ceeded thus: 

“Why, you must know, sir, my young lady sent me to enquire 
after Molly Seagrim, and to see whether the wench wanted any- 
thing; to be sure, I did not care to go, methinks; but servants 
must do what they are ordered. — How could you undervalue 
yourself so, Mr Jones? — So my lady bid me go and carry her 
some linen, and other things. She is too good. If such forward 
sluts were sent to Bridewell it would be better for them. I 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 89 

told my lady, says I, madam, your la’ship is encouraging idle- 
ness.” 

“And was my Sophia so good?” says Jones. 

“My Sophia! I assure you, marry come up,” answered Hon- 
our. “And yet if you knew all — indeed, if I was as Mr Jones, 
I should look a little higher than such trumpery as Molly Sea- 
grim.” 

“What do you mean by these words,” replied Jones, “if I 
knew all?” 

“I mean what I mean,” says Honour. “Don’t you remem- 
ber putting your hands in my lady’s muff once? I vow I could 
almost find in my heart to tell, if I was certain my lady would 
never come to the hearing on’t.” Jones then made several 
solemn protestations. And Honour proceeded — “Then to be 
sure, my lady gave me that muff ; and afterwards, upon hearing 
what you had done” 

“Then you told her what I had done?” interrupted Jones. 

“If I did sir,” answered she, “you need not be angry with me. 
Many’s the man would have given his head to have had my lady 
told, if they had known, — for, to be sure, the biggest lord in the 
land might be proud — but, I protest, I have a great mind not to 
tell you.” Jones fell to entreaties, and soon prevailed on her 
to go on thus: “You must know then, sir, that my lady had 
given this muff to me; but about a day or two after I had 
told her the story, she quarrels with her new muff, and to be 
sure it is the prettiest that ever was seen. Honour, says she, 
this is an odious muff ; it is too big for me, I can’t wear it ; till 
I can get another, you must let me have my old one again, and 
you may have this in the room on’t — for she’s a good lady, and 
scorns to give a thing and take a thing, I promise you that. So 
to be sure I fetched it her back again, and, I believe, she hath 
worn it upon her arm almost ever since, and I warrants hath 
given it many a kiss when nobody hath seen her.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by Mr Western him- 
self, who came to summon Jones to the harpsichord ; whither 
the poor young fellow went all pale and trembling. This West- 
ern observed, but, on seeing Mrs Honour, imputed it to a wrong 
cause; and having given Jones a hearty curse between jest and 
earnest, he bid him beat abroad, and not poach up the game in 
his warren. 

Sophia looked this evening with more than usual beauty, 


90 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


and we may believe it was no small addition to her charms, in 
the eye of Mr Jones, that she now happened to have on her right 
arm this very muff. 

She was playing one of her father’s favourite tunes, and he 
was leaning on her chair, when the muff fell over her fingers, 
and put her out. This so disconcerted the squire, that he 
snatched the muff from her, and with a hearty curse threw it 
into the fire. Sophia instantly started up, and with the utmost 
eagerness recovered it from the flames. 

Though this incident will probably appear of little conse- 
quence to many of our readers ; yet, trifling as it w T as, it had so 
violent an effect on poor Jones, that we thought it our duty to 
relate it. In reality, there are many little circumstances too 
often omitted by injudicious historians, from which events of the 
utmost importance arise. The world may indeed be considered 
as a vast machine, in which the great wheels are originally set 
in motion by those which are very minute, and almost imper- 
ceptible to any but the strongest eyes. 

Thus, not all the charms of the incomparable Sophia ; not all 
the dazzling brightness, and languishing softness of her eyes; 
the harmony of her voice, and of her person; not all her wit, 
good-humour, greatness of mind, or sweetness of disposition, 
had been able so absolutely to conquer and enslave the heart of 
poor Jones, as this little incident of the muff. All those con- 
siderations of honour and prudence which our hero had lately 
with so much military wisdom placed as guards over the avenues 
of his heart, ran away from their posts, and the god of love 
marched in, in triumph. 

But though this victorious deity easily expelled his avowed 
enemies from the heart of Jones, he found it more difficult to 
supplant the garrison which he himself had placed there. To lay 
aside all allegory, the concern for what must become of poor 
Molly greatly disturbed and perplexed the mind of the worthy 
youth. The superior merit of Sophia totally eclipsed, or rather 
extinguished, all the beauties of the poor girl; but compassion 
instead of contempt succeeded to love. He w T as convinced the 
girl had placed all her affections, and all her prospect of future 
happiness, in him only. 

At length it occurred to him, that he might possibly be able 
to make Molly amends by giving her a sum of money. This, 
nevertheless, he almost despaired of her accepting, when he 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


9i 


recollected the frequent and vehement assurances he had re- 
ceived from her, that the world put in balance with him would 
make her no amends for his loss. However, her extreme poverty, 
and chiefly her egregious vanity (somewhat of which hath been 
already hinted to the reader), gave him some little hope, that, 
notwithstanding all her avowed tenderness, she might in time be 
brought to content herself with a fortune superior to her expecta- 
tion, and which might indulge her vanity, by setting her above 
all her equals. He resolved therefore to take the first oppor- 
tunity of making a proposal of this kind. 

One day, accordingly, when his arm was so well recovered 
that he could walk easily with it slung in a sash, he stole forth, 
at a season when the squire was engaged in his field exercises, 
and visited his fair one. Her mother and sisters, whom he found 
taking their tea, informed him first that Molly was not at home; 
but afterwards the eldest sister acquainted him, with a malicious 
smile, that she was above stairs a-bed. Tom had no objection 
to this situation of his mistress, and immediately ascended the 
ladder which led towards her bed-chamber; but when he came 
to the top, he, to his great surprize, found the door fast; nor 
could he for some time obtain any answer from within; for 
Molly, as she herself afterwards informed him, was fast asleep. 

The extremes of grief and joy have been remarked to produce 
very similar effects; and when either of these rushes on us by 
surprize, it is apt to create such a total perturbation and con- 
fusion, that we are often thereby deprived of the use of all our 
faculties. It cannot therefore be wondered at, that the unex- 
pected sight of Mr Jones should so strongly operate on the mind 
of Molly, and should overwhelm her with such confusion, that 
for some minutes she was unable to express the great raptures, 
with which the reader will suppose she was affected on this oc- 
casion. As for Jones, he was so entirely possessed, and as it were 
enchanted, by the presence of his beloved object, that he for a 
while forgot Sophia, and consequently the principal purpose of 
his visit. 

This, however, soon recurred to his memory; and after the 
first transports of their meeting were over, he found means by 
degrees to introduce a discourse on the fatal consequences which 
must attend their amour, if Mr Allworthy, who had strictly for- 
bidden him ever seeing her more, should discover that he still 
carried on this commerce. Such a discovery, which his enemies 


92 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


gave him reason to think would be unavoidable, must, he said, 
end in his ruin, and consequently in hers. Since therefore their 
hard fates had determined that they must separate, he advised 
her to bear it with resolution, and swore he would never omit 
any opportunity, through the course of his life, of showing her 
the sincerity of his affection, by providing for her in a manner 
beyond her utmost expectation, or even beyond her wishes, if 
ever that should be in his power; concluding at last, that she 
might soon find some man who would marry her, and who would 
make her much happier than she could be by leading a dis- 
reputable life with him. 

Molly remained a few moments in silence, and then bursting 
into a flood of tears, she began to upbraid him in the following 
words : “And this is your love for me, to forsake me in this 
manner, now you have ruined me! How often, when I have 
told you that all men are false and perjury like, and grow tired 
of us as soon as ever they have had their wicked wills of us, how 
often have you sworn you would never forsake me! And can 
you be such a perjury man after all? What signifies all the 
riches in the world to me without you, now you have gained my 
heart, so you have — you have — ? Why do you mention another 
man to me? I can never love any other man as long as I live. 
All other men are nothing to me. If the greatest squire in 
all the country would come a suiting to me to-morrow, I would 
not give my company to him. No, I shall always hate and 
despise the whole sex for your sake.” 

She w^as proceeding thus, when an accident put a stop to her 
tongue, before it had run out half its career. The room, or 
rather garret, in which Molly lay, being up one pair of stairs, 
that is to say, at the top of the house, was of a sloping figure, 
resembling the great Delta of the Greeks. The English reader 
may perhaps form a better idea of it, by being told that it was 
impossible to stand upright anywhere but in the middle. Now, 
as this room wanted the conveniency of a closet, Molly had, to 
supply that defect, nailed up an old rug against the rafters of 
the house, which enclosed a little hole where her best apparel, 
such as the remains of that sack which we have formerly men- 
tioned, some caps, and other things with which she had lately 
provided herself, were hung up and secured from the dust. 

This enclosed place exactly fronted the foot of the bed, to 
which,’ indeed, the rug hung so near, that it served in a manner 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


93 


to supply the want of curtains. Now, whether Molly, in the 
agonies of her rage, pushed this rug with her feet; or Jones 
might- touch it; or whether the pin or nail gave way of its own 
accord, I am not certain; but as Molly pronounced those last 
words, which are recorded above, the wicked rug got loose from 
its fastenings, and discovered everything hid behind it; where 
among other female utensils appeared — (with shame I write it, 
and with sorrow will it be read) — the philosopher Square, in a 
posture (for the place would not near admit his standing up- 
right) as ridiculous as can possibly be conceived. 

He had a nightcap belonging to Molly on his head, and his 
two large eyes, the moment the rug fell, stared directly at Jones; 
so that when the idea of philosophy was added to the figure now 
discovered, it would have been very difficult for any spectator 
to have refrained from immoderate laughter. 

I question not but the surprize of the reader will be here 
equal to that of Jones; as the suspicions which must arise from 
the appearance of this wise and grave man in such a place, may 
seem so inconsistent with that character which he hath, doubtless, 
maintained hitherto, in the opinion of every one. 

But to confess the truth, this inconsistency is rather imaginary 
than real. Philosophers are composed of flesh and blood as well 
as other human creatures; and however sublimated and refined 
the theory of these may be, a little practical frailty is as incident 
to them as to other mortals. It is, indeed, in theory only, and 
not in practice, as we have before hinted, that consists the dif- 
ference: for though such great beings think much better and 
more wisely, they always act exactly like other men. 

Mr Square happened to be at church on that Sunday, when, 
as the reader may be pleased to remember, the appearance of 
Molly in her sack had caused all that disturbance. Here he first 
observed her, and was so pleased with her beauty, that he pre- 
vailed with the young gentlemen to change their intended ride 
that evening, that he might pass by the habitation of Molly and 
by that means might obtain a second chance of seeing her. 
This reason, however, as he did not at that time mention to 
any, so neither did we think proper to communicate it then to 
the reader. 

Among other particulars which constituted the unfitness of 
things in Mr Square’s opinion, danger and difficulty were two. 
The difficulty therefore which he apprehended there might be in 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


94 

corrupting this young wench, and the danger which would ac- 
crue to his character on the discovery, were such strong dissua- 
sives, that it is probable he at first intended to have contented 
himself with the pleasing ideas which the sight of beauty fur- 
nishes us with. 

But when the philosopher heard, a day or two afterwards, 
that the fortress of virtue had already been subdued, he began to 
give a larger scope to his desires. His appetite was not of that 
squeamish kind which cannot feed on a dainty because another 
hath tasted it. In short, he liked the girl the better for the want 
of that chastity, which, if she had possessed it, must have been a 
bar to his pleasures; he pursued and obtained her. 

The reader will be mistaken, if he thinks Molly gave Square 
the preference to her younger lover: on the contrary, had she 
been confined to the choice of one only, Tom Jones would un- 
doubtedly have been, of the two, the victorious person. Nor 
was it solely the consideration that two are better than one 
(though this had its proper weight) to which Mr Square owed 
his success: the absence of Jones during his confinement was an 
unlucky circumstance ; and in that interval some well-chosen 
presents from the philosopher so softened and unguarded the 
girl’s heart, that a favourable opportunity became irresistible, 
and Square triumphed over the poor remains of virtue which 
subsisted in the bosom of Molly. 

It was now about a fortnight since this conquest, when Jones 
paid the above-mentioned visit to his mistress, at a time when 
she and Square were in bed together. This was the true reason 
why the mother denied her as we have seen; for as the old 
woman shared in the profits arising from the iniquity of her 
daughter, she encouraged and protected her in it to the utmost 
of her power ; but such was the envy and hatred which the elder 
sister bore towards Molly, that, notwithstanding she had some 
part of the booty, she would willingly have parted with this to 
ruin her sister and spoil her trade. Hence she had acquainted 
Jones with her being above-stairs in bed, in hopes that he might 
have caught her in Square’s arms. This, however, Molly found 
means to prevent, as the door was fastened ; which gave her an 
opportunity of conveying her lover behind that rug or blanket 
where he now was unhappily discovered. 

Square no sooner made his appearanse than Molly flung her- 
self back in her bed, cried out she was undone, and abandoned 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


95 


herself to despair. As to the gentleman behind the arras, he 
was not in much less consternation. He stood for a while mo- 
tionless, and seemed equally at a loss what to say, or whither to 
direct his eyes. Jones, though perhaps the most astonished of 
the three, first found his tongue; and being immediately re- 
covered from those uneasy sensations which Molly by her up- 
braidings had occasioned, he burst into a loud laughter, and then 
saluting Mr Square, advanced to take him by the hand, and to 
relieve him from his place of confinement. 

Square being now arrived in the middle of the room, in 
which part only he could stand upright, looked at Jones with a 
very grave countenance, and said to him, “Well, sir, I see you 
enjoy this mighty discovery, and, I dare swear, take great delight 
in the thoughts of exposing me ; but if you will consider the mat- 
ter fairly, you will find you are yourself only to blame. I am not 
guilty of corrupting innocence. I have done nothing for which 
that part of the world which judges of matters by the rule of 
right, will condemn me. Fitness is governed by the nature of 
things, and not by customs, forms, or municipal laws. Nothing 
is indeed unfit which is not unnatural.” 

“Well reasoned, old boy,” answered Jones; “but why dost 
thou think that I should desire to expose thee? I promise thee, 
I was never better pleased with thee in my life; and unless 
thou hast a mind to discover it thyself, this affair may remain a 
profound secret for me.” 

“Nay, Mr Jones,” replied Square, “I would not be thought 
to undervalue reputation. Good fame is a species of the Kalon, 
and it is by no means fitting to neglect it. Besides, to murder 
one’s own reputation is a kind of suicide, a detestable and odious 
vice. If you think proper, therefore, to conceal any infirmity 
of mine (for such I may have, since no man is perfectly perfect), 
I promise you I will not betray myself. Things may be fitting 
to be done, which are not fitting to be boasted of; for by the 
perverse judgment of the world, that often becomes the subject 
of censure,, which is, in truth, not only innocent but laudable.” 

“Right!” cries Jones: “what can be more innocent than the 
indulgence of a natural appetite? or what more laudable than 
the propagation of our species?” 

“To be serious with you,” answered Square, “I profess they 
always appeared so to me.” 


96 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“And yet,” said Jones, “you was of a different opinion when 
my affair with this girl was first discovered.” 

“Why, I must confess,” says Square, “as the matter was mis- 
represented to me, by that parson Thwackum, I might condemn 
the corruption of innocence: it was that, sir, it was that — and 
that — : for you must know, Mr Jones, in the consideration of 
fitness, very minute circumstances, sir, very minute circumstances 
cause great alteration.” 

“Well,” cries Jones, “be that as it will, it shall be your own 
fault, as I have promised you, if you ever hear any more of this 
adventure. Behave kindly to the girl, and I will never open my 
lips concerning the matter to any one. And, Molly, do you be 
faithful to your friend, and I will not only forgive your infidelity 
to me, but will do you all the service I can.” So saying, he took 
a hasty leave, and, slipping down the ladder, retired with much 
expedition. 

The infidelity of Molly would, perhaps, have vindicated a 
much greater degree of resentment than Jones expressed on the 
occasion; and if he had abandoned her directly from that mo- 
men, very few, I believe, would have blamed him. 

Certain, however, it is, that he saw her in the light of com- 
passion ; and though his love to her was not of that kind which 
could give him any great uneasiness at her inconstancy, yet was 
he not a little shocked on reflecting that he had himself origi- 
nally corrupted her innocence ; for to this corruption he imputed 
all the vice into which she appeared now so likely to plunge her- 
self. 

This consideration gave him no little uneasiness, till Betty, 
the elder sister, was so kind, some time afterwards, entirely to 
cure him by a hint, that one Will Barnes, and not himself, had 
been the first seducer of Molly; and that the little child, which 
he had hitherto so certainly concluded to be his own, might very 
probably have an equal title, at least, to claim Barnes for its 
father. 

Jones eagerly pursued this scent when he had first received it ; 
and in a very short time was sufficiently assured that the girl 
had told him truth, not only by the confession of the fellow, 
but at last by that of Molly herself. 

Jones was become perfectly easy by possession of this secret 
with regard to Molly ; but as to Sophia, he was far from being 
in a state of tranquillity; nay, indeed, he was under the most 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


97 


violent perturbation ; his heart was now, if I may use the meta- 
phor, entirely evacuated, and Sophia took absolute possession of 
it. He loved her with an unbounded passion, and plainly saw the 
tender sentiments she had for him; yet could not this assurance 
lessen his despair of obtaining the consent of her father, nor the 
horrors which attended his pursuit of her by any base or treach- 
erous method. 

This conflict began soon to produce very strong and visible 
effects : for he lost all his usual sprightliness and gaiety of tem- 
per, and became not only melancholy when alone, but dejected 
and absent in company; nay, if ever he put on a forced mirth, 
to comply with Mr Western’s humour, the constraint appeared 
so plain, that he seemed to have been giving the strongest evi- 
dence of what he endeavoured to conceal by such ostentation. 

It may, perhaps, be a question, whether the art which he 
used to conceal his passion, or the means which honest nature 
employed to reveal it, betrayed him most: for while art made 
him more than ever reserved to Sophia, and forbade him to ad- 
dress any of his discourse to her, nay, to avoid meeting her eyes, 
with the utmost caution ; nature was no less busy in counter- 
plotting him. Hence, at the approach of the young lady, he 
grew pale; and if this was sudden, started. If his eyes acciden- 
tally met hers, the blood rushed into his cheeks, and his counte- 
nance became all over scarlet. If common civility ever obliged 
him to speak to her, as to drink her health at table, his tongue 
was sure to falter. If he touched her, his hand, nay his whole 
frame, trembled. And if any discourse tended, however re- 
motely, to raise the idea of love, an involuntary sigh seldom 
failed to steal from his bosom. Most of which accidents nature 
was wonderfully industrious to throw daily in his way. 

All these symptoms escaped the notice of the squire: but not 
so of Sophia. She soon perceived these agitations of mind in 
Jones, and was at no loss to discover the cause; for indeed she 
recognized it in her own breast. And this recognition is, I sup- 
pose, that sympathy which hath been so often noted in lovers, 
and which will sufficiently account for her being so much 
quicker-sighted than her father. 

When Sophia was well satisfied of the violent passion which 
tormented poor Jones, and no less certain that she herself was its 
object, she had not the least difficulty in discovering the true 
cause of his present behaviour. This highly endeared him to her, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


98 

and raised in her mind two of the best affections which any 
lover can wish to raise in a mistress — these were, esteem and 
pity — for sure the most outrageously rigid among her sex will 
excuse her pitying a man whom she saw miserable on her own 
account ; nor can they blame her for esteeming one who visibly, 
from the most honourable motives, endeavoured to smother a 
flame in his own bosom, which, like the famous Spartan theft, 
was preying upon and consuming his very vitals. Thus his back- 
wardness, his shunning her, his coldness, and his silence, were 
the forwardest, the most diligent, the warmest, and most elo- 
quent advocates; and wrought so violently on her sensible and 
tender heart, that she soon felt for him all those gentle sensa- 
tions which are consistent with a virtuous and elevated female 
mind. In short, all which esteem, gratitude, and pity, can inspire 
in such towards an agreeable man — indeed, all which the nicest 
delicacy can allow. In a word, she was in love with him to 
distraction. 

One day this young couple accidentally met in the garden, at 
the end of the two walks which were both bounded by that canal 
in which Jones had formerly risked drowning to retrieve the 
little bird that Sophia had there lost. 

They were almost close together before either of them knew 
anything of the other’s approach. A bystander would have dis- 
covered sufficient marks of confusion in the countenance of each ; 
but they felt too much themselves to make any observation. As 
soon as Jones had a little recovered his first surprize, he accosted 
the young lady with some of the ordinary forms of salutation, 
which she in the same manner returned ; and their conversation 
began, as usual, on the delicious beauty of the morning. Hence 
they past to the beauty of the place, on which Jones launched 
forth very high encomiums. 

When they came to the tree whence he had formerly tumbled 
into the canal, Sophia could not help reminding him of that ac- 
cident, and said, “I fancy, Mr Jones, you have some little shud- 
dering when you see that water.” 

“I assure you, madam,” answered Jones, “the concern you 
felt at the less of your little bird will always appear to me the 
highest circumstance in that adventure. Poor little Tommy! 
there is the branch he stood upon. How could the little wretch 
have the folly to fly away from that state of happiness in which 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. gg 

I had the honour to place him? His fate was a just punishment 
for his ingratitude.” 

Upon my word, Mr Jones,” said she, “your gallantry very 
narrowly escaped as severe a fate. Sure the remembrance must 
affect you.” 

“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “if I have any reason to re- 
flect with sorrow on it, it is, perhaps, that the water had not 
been a litHe deeper, by which I might have escaped many bitter 
heart- aches that Fortune seems to have in store for me.” 

“Fie, Mr Jones!” replied Sophia; “I am sure you cannot be in 
earnest now. This affected contempt of life is only an excess of 
your complacence to me. You would endeavour to lessen the 
obligation of having twice ventured it for my sake. Beware 
the third time.” She spoke these last words with a smile, and a 
softness inexpressible. 

Jones answered with a sigh, he feared it was already too late 
for caution : and then looking tenderly and stedfastly on her, he 
cried, “Oh, Miss Western! can you desire me to live? Can you 
w r ish me so ill?” 

Sophia, looking down on the ground, answered .with some 
hesitation, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I do not wish you ill.” 

“Oh, I know too well that heavenly temper,” cries Jones, 
“that divine goodness, which is beyond every other charm.” 

“Nay, now,” answered she, “I understand you not. I can 
stay no longer.” 

“I — I would not be understood!” cries he; “nay, I can’t 
be understood. I know not what I say. Meeting you here so 
unexpectedly, 1 have been unguarded : for Heaven’s sake pardon 
me, if I have said anything to offend you. I did not mean it. 
Indeed, I would rather have died — nay, the very thought would 
kill me.” 

“You surprize me,” answered she. “How can you possibly 
think you have offended me?” 

“Fear, madam,” says he, “easily runs into madness; and there 
is no degree of fear like that which I feel of offending you. 
How can I speak then? Nay, don’t look angrily at me: one 
frown will destroy me. I mean nothing. Blame my eyes, or 
blame those beauties. What am I saying? Pardon me if I have 
said too much. My heart overflowed. I have struggled with 
my love to the utmost, and have endeavoured to conceal a fever 


L.of C. 


IOO 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


which preys on my vitals, and will, I hope, soon make it im- 
possible for me ever to offend you more.” 

Mr Jones now fell a trembling as if he had been shaken with 
the fit of an ague. Sophia, who was in a situation not very dif- 
ferent from his, answered in these words: “Mr Jones, I will 
not affect to misunderstand you; indeed, I understand you too 
well ; but, for Heaven’s sake, if you have any affection for me, let 
me make the best of my way into the house. I wish I may be 
able to support myself thither.” 

Jones, who was hardly able to support himself, offered her 
his arm, which she condescended to accept, but begged he would 
not mention a word more to her of this nature at present. He 
promised he would not; insisting only on her forgiveness of 
what love, without the leave of his will, had forced from him : 
this, she told him, he knew how to obtain by his future beha- 
viour; and thus this young pair tottered and trembled along, the 
lover not once daring to squeeze the hand of his mistress, though 
it was locked in his. 


CHAPTER X. 


In which Mr Allworthy appears on a sick-bed ; with as bloody 
a battle as can possibly be fought without the assistance of 
steel . 

Western was become so fond of Jones that he was un- 
willing to part with him, though his arm had been long 
since cured; and Jones, either from the love of sport, or 
from some other reason, was easily persuaded to continue at his 
house, which he did sometimes for a fortnight together without 
paying a single visit at Mr Allworthy’s ; nay, without ever hear- 
ing from thence. 

Mr Allworthy had been for some days indisposed with a cold, 
which had been attended with a little fever. This he had, how- 
ever, neglected; as it was usual with him to do all manner of 
disorders which did not confine him to his bed, or prevent his 
several faculties from performing their ordinary functions. His 
distemper, by means of this neglect, gained such ground, that, 
when the increase of his fever obliged him to send for assistance, 
the doctor at his first arrival shook his head, wished he had been 
sent for sooner, and intimated that he thought him in very im- 
minent danger. Mr Allworthy, who had settled all his affairs 
in this world, and was as well prepared as it is possible for human 
nature to be for the other, received this information with the 
utmost calmness and unconcern. 

The good man gave immediate orders for all his family to be 
summoned round him. None of these were then abroad, but 
Mrs Blifil, who had been some time in London, and Mr Jones, 
whom the reader hath just parted from at Mr Western’s, and 
who received this summons just as Sophia had left him. 

The news of Mr All worthy’s danger (for the servant told 
him he was dying) drove all thoughts of love out of his head. 
He hurried instantly into the chariot which was sent for him, 
and ordered the coachman to drive with all imaginable haste; 


102 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


nor did the idea of Sophia, I believe, once occur to him on the 
way. 

And now the whole family, namely, Mr Blifil, Mr Jones, Mr 
Thwackum, Mr Square, and some of the servants (for such were 
Mr Allworthy’s orders) being all assembled round his bed, the 
good man sat up in it, and was beginning to speak, when Blifil 
fell to blubbering, and began to express very loud and bitter 
lamentations. 

Upon this Mr Allworthy shook him by the hand, and said, 
“Do not sorrow thus, my dear nephew, at the most ordinary of 
all human occurrences. When misfortunes befal our friends we 
are justly grieved ; for those are accidents which might often 
have been avoided, and which may seem to render the lot of one 
man more peculiarly unhappy than that of others; but death is 
certainly unavoidable, and is that common lot in which alone the 
fortunes of all men agree: nor is the time when this happens to 
us very material. 

“Grieve, therefore, no more, my dear child, on this occasion: 
an event which may happen every hour; which every element, 
nay, almost every particle of matter that surrounds us is capable 
of producing, and which must and will most unavoidably reach 
us all at least, ought neither to occasion our surprize nor our 
lamentation. 

“My physician having acquainted me (which I take very 
kindly of him) that I am in danger of leaving you all very 
shortly, I have determined to say a few words to you at this 
our parting, before my distemper, which I find grows very fast 
upon me, puts it out of my power. 

“Nephew Blifil, I leave you the heir to my whole estate, 
except only £500 a-year, which is to revert to you after the 
death of your mother, and except one other estate of £500 a-year, 
and the sum of £6000, which I have bestowed in the following 
manner: 

“The estate of £500 a-year I have given to you, Mr Jones: 
and as I know the inconvenience which attends the want of 
ready money, I have added £1000 in specie. In this I know 
not whether I have exceeded or fallen short of your expectation.” 

Jones flung himself at his benefactor’s feet, and taking eagerly 
hold of his hand, assured him his goodness to him, both now 
and all other times, had so infinitely exceeded not only his merit 
but his hopes, that no words could express his sense of it. 


THE HISTORY OF 7t>M JONES. 


103 

And I assure you, sir,” said he, “your present generosity hath 
left me no other concern than for the present melancholy occa- 
sion. Oh, my friend, my father!” Here his words choaked 
him, and he turned avray to hide a tear which was starting from 
his eyes. 

Allworthy then gently squeezed his hand, and proceeded thus : 
“I am convinced, my child, that you have much goodness, gener- 
osity, and honour, in your temper: if you will add prudence 
and religion to these, you must be happy; for the three former 
qualities, I admit, make you worthy of happiness, but they are 
the latter only which will put you in possession of it. 

“One thousand pound I have given to you, Mr Thwackum; 
a sum I am convinced which greatly exceeds your desires, as 
well as your wants. 

“A like sum, Mr Square, I have bequeathed to you. This, 
I hope, will enable you to pursue your profession with better 
success than hitherto. 

“I find myself growing faint, so I shall refer you to my will 
for my disposition of the residue. My servants will there find 
some tokens to remember me by; and there are a few charities 
which, I trust, my executors will see faithfully performed. 
Bless you all. I am setting out a little before you ” 

Here a footman came hastily into the room, and said there 
was an attorney from Salisbury who had a particular message, 
which he said he must communicate to Mr Allworthy himself: 
that he seemed in a violent hurry, and protested he had so much 
business to do, that if he could cut himself into four quarters, 
all would not be sufficient. 

“Go, child,” said Allworthy to Blifil, “see what the gentle- 
man wants. I am not able to do any business now, nor can he 
have any with me, in which you are not at present more con- 
cerned than myself. Besides, I really am — I am incapable of 
seeing any one at present, or of any longer attention.” 

He then saluted them all, saying, perhaps he should be able to 
see them again, but he should be now glad to compose himself a 
little, finding that he had too much exhausted his spirits in 
discourse. 

About an hour after they had left the sick-room, Square met 
Thwackum in the hall and accosted him thus: “Well, sir, have 
you heard any news of your friend since we parted from him?” 

“If you mean Mr All worthy,” answered Thwackum, “I 


104 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


think you might rather give him the appellation of your friend ; 
for he seems to me to have deserved that title.” 

“The title is as good on your side,” replied Square, “for his 
bounty, such as it is, hath been equal to both.” 

“I should not have mentioned it first,” cries Thwackum, 
“but since you begin, I must inform you I am of a different 
opinion. There is a wide distinction between voluntary favours 
and rewards. The duty I have done in his family, and the care 
I have taken in the education of his two boys, are services for 
which some men might have expected a greater return.” 

“Since you provoke me,” returned Square, “the injury is 
done to me ; nor did I ever imagine Mr Allworthy had held my 
friendship so light, as to put me in balance with one who re- 
ceived his wages. I know to what it is owing ; it proceeds from 
those narrow principles which you have been so long endeavor- 
ing to infuse into him, in contempt of everything which is great 
and noble. The beauty and loveliness of friendship is too 
strong for dim eyes, nor can it be perceived by any other 
medium than that unerring rule of right, which you have so 
often endeavoured to ridicule, that you have perverted your 
friend’s understanding.” 

“I wish,” cries Thwackum, in a rage, “I wish, for the sake 
of his soul, your damnable doctrines have not perverted his 
faith. It is to this I impute his present behaviour, so unbe- 
coming a Christian. Who but an atheist could think of leav- 
ing the world without having first made up his account? with- 
out confessing his sins, and receiving that absolution which 
he knew he had one in the house duly authorized to give him? 
He will feel the want of these necessaries when it is too late, 
when he is arrived at that place where there is wailing and 
gnashing of teeth. It is then he will find in what mighty stead 
that heathen goddess, that virtue, which you and all other 
deists of the age adore, will stand him. He will then summon 
his priest, when there is none to be found, and will lament 
the want of that absolution, without which no sinner can be 
safe.” 

“If it be so material,” says Square, “why don’t you present 
it him of your own accord?” 

“It hath no virtue,” cries Thwackum, “but to those who 
have sufficient grace to require it. But why do I talk thus to 
a heathen and an unbeliever? It is you that taught him this 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


105 


lesson, for which you have been well rewarded in this world, 
as I doubt not your disciple will soon be in the other.” 

“I know not what you mean by reward,” said Square; “but 
if you hint at that pitiful memorial of our friendship, which he 
hath thought fit to bequeath me, I despise it; and nothing but 
the unfortunate situation of my circumstances should prevail on 
me to accept it.” 

The physician now arrived, and began to inquire of the two 
disputants, how we all did above-stairs? 

“In a miserable way,” answered Thwackum. 

“It is no more than I expected,” cries the doctor: “but pray 
what symptoms have appeared since I left you?” 

“No good ones, I am afraid,” replied Thwackum: “after 
what past at our departure, I think there were little hopes.” 

The bodily physician, perhaps, misunderstood the curer of 
souls; and before they came to an explanation, Mr Blifil came 
to them with a most melancholy countenance, and acquainted 
them that he brought sad news, that his mother was dead at 
Salisbury; that she had been seized on the road home with the 
gout in her head and stomach, which had carried her off in a 
few hours. 

Thwackum and Square both condoled with Mr Blifil for the 
loss of his mother, which the one advised him to bear like a 
man, and the other like a Christian. It was now debated 
whether Mr All worthy should be informed of the death of his 
sister. This the doctor violently opposed; in which, I believe, 
the whole college would agree with him: but Mr Blifil said, 
he had received such positive and repeated orders from his uncle, 
never to keep any secret from him for fear of the disquietude 
which it might give him, that he durst not think of disobedi- 
ence, whatever might be the consequence. 

The physician was forced to submit to this resolution, which 
the two other learned gentlemen very highly commended. So 
together moved Mr Blifil and the doctor toward the sick- 
room; where the physician first entered, and approached the 
bed, in order to feel his patient’s pulse, which he had no sooner 
done, than he declared he was much better; that the last appli- 
cation had succeeded to a miracle, and had brought the fever 
to intermit: so that, he said, there appeared now to be as little 
danger as he had before apprehended there were hopes. 

Mr Allworthy had no sooner lifted up his eyes, and thanked 


io6 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Heaven for these hopes of his recovery, than Mr Blifil drew 
near, with a very dejected aspect, and having applied his hand- 
kerchief to his eyes, communicated to his uncle what the reader 
hath been just before acquainted with. 

Allworthy received the news with concern, with patience, 
and with resignation. He dropt a tender tear, then composed 
his countenance, and at last cried, “The Lord’s will be done in 
everything.’’ 

He now enquired for the messenger; but Blifil told him it 
had been impossible to detain him a moment. Allworthy then 
desired Blifil to take care of the funeral. He said, he would 
have his sister deposited in his own chapel; and as to the par- 
ticulars, he left them to his own discretion, only mentioning 
the person whom he would have employed on this occasion. 

The physician dined that day at Mr Allworthy’s; and having 
after dinner visited his patient, he returned to the company, 
and told them, that he had now the satisfaction to say, with 
assurance, that his patient was out of all danger: that he had 
brought his fever to a perfect intermission, and doubted not by 
throwing in the bark to prevent its return. 

This account so pleased Jones, and threw him into such im- 
moderate excess of rapture, that he might be truly said to be 
drunk with joy — an intoxication which greatly forwards the 
effects of wine; and as he was very free too with the bottle on 
this occasion (for he drank many bumpers to the doctor’s health, 
as well as to other toasts) he became very soon literally drunk. 

Jones had naturally violent animal spirits: these being set 
on float and augumented by the spirit of wine, produced most 
extravagant effects. He kissed the doctor, and embraced him 
with the most passionate endearments; after which he gave a 
loose to mirth, sang two or three amorous songs, and fell into 
every frantic disorder which unbridled joy is apt to inspire; but 
so far was he from any disposition to quarrel, that he w T as ten 
times better humoured, if possible, than when he was sober. 

Though Jones had shown no design of giving offence, yet 
Mr Blifil was highly offended at a behaviour which was so 
inconsistent with the sober and prudent reserve of his own 
temper. He bore it too with the greater impatience, as it ap- 
peared to him very indecent at this season; when, as he said, 
the house was a house of mourning, on account of his dear 
mother; and if it had pleased Heaven to give him some pros- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


107 

pect of Mr Allworthy’s recovery, it would become them better 
to express the exultations of their hearts in thanksgiving, than 
in drunkenness and riots; which were properer methods to 
encrease the Divine wrath, than to avert it. 

Wine had not so totally overpowered Jones, as to prevent his 
recollecting Mr Blifil’s loss, the moment it was mentioned. As 
no person, therefore, was more ready to confess and condemn 
his own errors, he offered to shake Mr Blifil by the hand, and 
begged his pardon, saying, his excessive joy for Mr Allworthy’s 
recovery had driven every other thought out of his mind. 

Blifil scornfully rejected his hand; and with much indigna- 
tion answered, it was little to be wondered at, if tragical spec- 
tacles made no impression on the blind; but, for his part, he 
had the misfortune to know who his parents were, and conse- 
quently must be affected with their loss. 

Jones, who, notwithstanding his good humour, had some mix- 
ture of the irascible in his constitution, leaped hastily from his 
chair, and catching hold of Blifil’s collar, cried out, “D — n you 
for a rascal, do you insult me with the misfortune of my birth ?” 

He accompanied these words with such rough actions, that 
they soon got the better of Mr Blifil’s peaceful temper; and 
a scuffle immediately ensued, which might have produced mis- 
chief, had it not been prevented by the interposition of Thwack- 
urn and the physician; for the philosophy of Square rendered 
him superior to all emotions, and he very calmly smoaked his 
pipe, as was his custom in all broils, unless when he apprehended 
some danger of having it broke in his mouth. 

A truce was at length agreed on, by the mediation of the 
neutral parties, and the whole company again sat down at the 
table; where Jones being prevailed on to ask pardon, and Blifil 
to give it, peace was restored, and everything seemed in statu 
quo. 

But though the quarrel was, in all appearance, perfectly recon- 
ciled, the good humour which had been interrupted by it, was by 
no means restored. All merriment was now at an end, and the 
subsequent discourse consisted only of grave relations of matters 
of fact, and of as grave observations upon them; a species of 
conversation, in which, though there is much of dignity and in- 
struction, there is but little entertainment. 

Jones soon retired from the company, into the fields, where he 
intended to cool himself by a walk in the open air before he at- 


io8 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 




tended Mr Allworthy. There, whilst he renewed those medi- 
tations on his dear Sophia, which the dangerous illness of his 
friend and benefactor had for some time interrupted, an accident 
happened, which with sorrow we relate, and with sorrow doubt- 
less will it be read; however, that historic truth to which we 
profess so inviolable an attachment, obliges us to communicate 
it to posterity. 

It was now a pleasant evening in the latter end of June, when 
our hero was walking in a most delicious grove, where the gentle 
breezes fanning the leaves, together with the sweet trilling of a 
murmuring stream, and the melodious notes of nightingales, 
formed altogether the most enchanting harmony. In this scene, 
so sweetly accommodated to love, he meditated on his dear 
Sophia. While his wanton fancy roamed unbounded over all 
her beauties, and his lively imagination painted the charming 
maid in various ravishing forms, his warm heart melted with 
tenderness; and at length, throwing himself on the ground, by 
the side of a gently murmuring brook, he broke forth into the 
following ejaculation: 

“O Sophia, would Heaven give thee to my arms, how blest 
would be my condition ! How contemptible would the brightest 
Circassian beauty, drest in all the jewels of the Indies, appear 
to my eyes ! But why do I mention another .woman ? Could 
I think my eyes capable of looking at any other with tenderness, 
these hands should tear them from my head. Oh! my fond 
heart is so wrapt in that tender bosom, that the brightest 
beauties would for me have no charms, nor would a hermit be 
colder in their embraces. Sophia, Sophia alone shall be mine. 
What raptures are in that name! I will engrave it on every 
tree.” 

At these words he started up, and beheld — not his Sophia — 
no, nor a Circassian maid richly and elegantly attired for the 
grand Signior’s seraglio. No; without a gown, in a shift that 
was somewhat of the coarsest, and none of the cleanest, be- 
dewed likewise with some odoriferous effluvia, the produce of 
the day’s labour, with a pitchfork in her hand, Molly Seagrim 
approached. Our hero had his penknife in his hand, which he 
had drawn for the before-mentioned purpose of carving on the 
bark; when the girl coming near him, cried out with a smile, 
“You don’t intend to kill me, squire, I hope!” 

“Why should you think I would kill you?” answered Jones. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


log 


“Nay,” replied she, “after your cruel usage of me when I 
saw you last, killing me would, perhaps, be too great kindness 
for me to expect.” 

Here ensued a parley, which, as I do not think myself obliged 
to relate it, I shall omit. It is sufficient that it lasted a full 
quarter of an hour, at the conclusion of which they retired into 
the thickest part of the grove. 

It hath been observed, that Fortune seldom doth things by 
halves. To say truth, there is no end to her freaks whenever 
she is disposed to gratify or displease. No sooner had our hero 
retired with his Dido, but the parson and the young squire, who 
were taking a serious walk, arrived at the stile which leads into 
the grove, and the latter caught a view of the lovers just as they 
were sinking out of sight. 

Blifil knew Jones very well, though he was at above a hun- 
dred yards’ distance, and he was as positive to the sex of his 
companion, though not to the individual person. He started, 
blessed himself, and uttered a very solemn ejaculation. 

Thwackum expressed some surprize at these sudden emotions, 
and asked the reason of them. To which Blifil answered, he 
was certain he had seen a fellow and wench retire together 
among the bushes, which he doubted not was with some wicked 
purpose. 

The parson, who was not only strictly chaste in his own per- 
son, but a great enemy to the opposite vice in all others, fired at 
this information. He desired Mr Blifil to conduct him im- 
mediately to the place, which as he approached he breathed forth 
vengeance mixed with lamentations. 

The way through which our hunters were to pass in pursuit 
of their game was so beset with briars, that it greatly obstructed 
their walk, and caused besides such a rustling, that Jones had 
sufficient warning of their arrival before they could surprize 
him; nay, indeed, so incapable w T as Thwackum of concealing 
his indignation, and such vengeance did he mutter forth every 
step he took, that this alone must have abundantly satisfied Jones 
that he was (to use the language of sportsmen) found sitting. 

As in the season of rutting (an uncouth phrase, by which the 
vulgar denote that gentle dalliance, which in the well- wooded 
forest of Hampshire, passes between lovers of the ferine kind), 
if, while the lofty-crested stag meditates the amorous sport, any 
hostile beasts should venture too near, on the first hint given by 


no 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


the frightened hind, fierce and tremendous rushes forth the stag 
to the entrance of the thicket; there stands he sentinel over his 
love, stamps the ground with his foot, and with his horns bran- 
dished aloft in air proudly provokes the apprehended foe to 
combat. 

Thus, and more terrible, when he perceivea the enemy’s ap- 
proach, leaped forth our hero. And now Thwackum, having 
first darted some livid lightning from his fiery eyes, began to 
thunder forth, “Fie upon it! Fie upon it! Mr Jones. Is it 
possible you should be the person ?” 

“You see,” answered Jones, “it is possible I should be here.” 

“And who,” said Thwackum, “is that wicked slut with you?” 

“If I have any wicked slut with me,” cries Jones, “it is pos- 
sible I shall not let you know who she is.” 

“I command you to tell me immediately,” says Thwackum: 
“and I would not have you imagine, young man, that your age, 
though it hath somewhat abridged the purpose of tuition, hath 
totally taken away the authority of the master. I would have 
you think yourself as much obliged to obey me now, as when 
I taught you your first rudiments.” 

“I believe you would,” cries Jones; “but that will not hap- 
pen, unless you had the same birchen argument to convince me.” 

“Then I must tell you plainly,” said Thwackum, “I am re- 
solved to discover the wicked wretch.” 

“And I must tell you plainly,” returned Jones, “I am resolved 
you shall not.” 

Thwackum then offered to advance, and Jones laid hold of 
his arms; which Mr Blifil endeavoured to rescue, declaring, he 
would not see his old master insulted. 

Jones now finding himself engaged with two, thought it nec- 
essary to rid himself of one of his antagonists as soon as pos- 
sible. He therefore applied to the weakest first ; and, letting the 
parson go, he directed a blow at the young squire’s breast, which 
luckily taking place, reduced him to measure his length on the 
ground. 

Thwackum was so intent on the discovery, that, the moment 
he found himself at liberty, he stept forward directly into the 
fern, without any great consideration of what might in the 
meantime befal his friend ; but he had advanced a very few paces 
into the thicket, before Jones, having defeated Blifil, overtook 
the parson, and dragged him backward by the skirt of his coat. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


ill 


This parson had been a champion in his youth, and had won 
much honour by his fist, both at school and at the university. 
He had now indeed, for a great number of years, declined the 
practice of that noble art; yet was his courage full as strong as 
his faith, and his body no less strong than either. He was, more- 
over, as the reader may perhaps have conceived, somewhat iras- 
cible in his nature. When he looked back, therefore, and saw his 
friend stretched out on the ground, and found himself at the 
same time so roughly handled by one who had formerly been 
only passive in all conflicts between them (a circumstance which 
highly aggravated the whole), his patience at length gave way; 
he threw himself into a posture of offence; and collecting all 
his force, attacked Jones in the front with as much impetuosity 
as he had formerly attacked him in the rear. 

Our hero received the enemy’s attack with the most undaunted 
intrepidity, and his bosom resounded with the blow. This he 
presently returned with no less violence, aiming likewise at the 
parson’s breast ; but he dexterously drove down the fist of Jones, 
so that it reached only his belly, where two pounds of beef and 
as many of pudding were deposited, and whence consequently 
no hollow sound could proceed. Many lusty blows, much more 
pleasant as well as easy to have seen, than to read or describe, 
were given on both sides: at last a violent fall, in which Jones 
had thrown his knees into Thwackum’s breast, so weakened the 
latter, that victory had been no longer dubious, had not Blifil, 
who had now recovered his strength, again renewed the fight, 
and by engaging with Jones, given the parson a moment’s time 
to shake his ears, and to regain his breath. 

And now both together attacked our hero, and the victory, 
according to modern custom, was like to be decided by numbers, 
when, on a sudden, a fourth pair of fists appeared in the battle, 
and immediately paid their compliments to the parson; and the 
owner of them at the same time crying out, “Are not you 
ashamed, and be d — n’d to you, to fall two of you upon one?” 

The battle, which was of the kind that for distinction’s sake 
is called royal, now raged with the utmost violence during a 
few minutes; till Blifil being a second time laid sprawling by 
Jones, Thwackum condescended to apply for quarter to his new 
antagonist, who was now found to be Mr Western himself; for 
in the heat of the action none of the combatants had recognized 
him. 


12 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


In fact, that honest squire, happening, in his afternoon’s walk 
with some company, to pass through the field where the bloody 
battle was fought, and having concluded, from seeing three men 
engaged, that two of them must be on a side, he hastened 
from his companions, and with more gallantry than policy, 
espoused the cause of the weaker party. 

The rest of Mr Western’s company were now come up, be- 
ing just at the instant when the action was over. These were 
the honest clergyman, whom we have formerly seen at Mr 
Western’s table; Mrs Western, the aunt of Sophia; and lastly, 
the lovely Sophia herself. 

At this time, the following was the aspect of the bloody field. 
In one place lay on the ground, all pale, and almost breathless, 
the vanquished Blifil. Near him stood the conqueror Jones, 
almost covered with blood, part of which was naturally his own, 
and part had been lately the property of the reverend Mr 
Thwackum. In a third place stood the said Thwackum, like 
King Porus, sullenly submitting to the conqueror. The last 
figure in the piece was Western the Great, most gloriously for- 
bearing the vanquished foe. 

Blifil, in whom there was little sign of life, was at first the 
principal object of the concern of every one, and particularly of 
Mrs Western, who had drawn from her pocket a bottle of 
hartshorn, and was herself about to apply it to his nostrils, when 
on a sudden the attention of the whole company was diverted 
from poor Blifil, whose spirit, if it had any such design, might 
have now taken an opportunity of stealing off to the other 
world-, without any ceremony. 

For now a more melancholy and a more lovely object lay 
motionless before them. This was no other than the charming 
Sophia herself, who, from the sight of blood, or from fear for 
her father, or from some other reason, had fallen down in a 
swoon, before any one could get to her assistance. 

Mrs Western first saw her and screamed. Immediately two 
or three voices cried out, “Miss Western is dead.” Hartshorn, 
water, every remedy was called for, almost at one and the 
same instant. 

The reader may remember, that in our description of this 
grove we mentioned a murmuring brook, which brook did not 
come there, as such gentle streams flow through vulgar 
romances, with no other purpose than to murmur. No! For- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


113 

tune had decreed to ennoble this little brook with a higher 
honour than any of those which wash the plains of Arcadia ever 
deserved. 

Jones was rubbing Blifil’s temples, for he began to fear he 
had given him a blow too much, when the words, Miss Western 
and Dead, rushed at once on his ear. He started up, left Blifil 
to his fate, and flew to Sophia, whom, while all the rest were 
running against each other, backward and forward, looking for 
water in the dry paths, he caught up in his arms, and then ran 
away with her over the field to the rivulet above mentioned ; 
where, plunging himself into the water, he contrived to be- 
sprinkle her face, head, and neck very plentifully. 

Happy was it for Sophia that the same confusion which pre- 
vented her other friends from serving her, prevented them like- 
wise from obstructing Jones. He had carried her half ways be- 
fore they knew what he was doing, and he had actually restored 
her to life before they reached the waterside. She stretched 
out her arms, opened her eyes, and cried, “Oh! heavens!” just 
as her father, aunt, and the parson came up. 

Jones, who had hitherto held this lovely burthen in his arms, 
now relinquished his hold; but gave her at the same instant a 
tender caress, which, had her senses been then perfectly restored, 
could not have escaped her observation. As she expressed, there- 
fore, no displeasure at this freedom, we suppose she was not 
sufficiently recovered from her swoon at the time. 

All fears for Sophia being now removed, Jones became the 
object of the squire’s consideration. 

“Come, my lad,” says Western, “d’off thy quoat and wash thy 
feace ; for att in a devilish pickle, I promise thee. Come, come, 
wash thyself, and shat go huome with me; and we’l zee to vind 
thee another quoat.” 

Jones immediately complied, threw off his coat, went down to 
the water, and washed both his face and bosom; for the latter 
was as much exposed and as bloody as the former. But though 
the water could clear off the blood, it could not remove the 
black and blue marks which Thwackum had imprinted on both 
his face and breast, and which, being discerned by Sophia, drew 
from her a sigh and a look full of inexpressible tenderness. 

Jones received this full in his eyes, and it had infinitely a 
stronger effect on him than all the contusions which he had 
received before. An effect, however, widely different; for so 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


114 

soft and balmy was it, that, had all his former blows been stabs, 
it would for some minutes have prevented his feeling their 
smart. 

The company now moved backwards, and soon arrived where 
Thwackum had got Mr Blifil again on his legs. Western be- 
gan now to inquire into the original rise of this quarrel. To 
which neither Blifil nor Jones gave any answer ; but Thwackum 
said surlily, “I believe the cause is not far off; if you beat the 
bushes well you may find her.” 

“Find her?” replied Western: “what! have you been fighting 
for a wench?” 

“Ask the gentleman in his waistcoat there,” said Thwackum : 
“he best knows.” 

“Nay then,” cries Western, “it is a wench certainly. — Ah, 
Tom, Tom, thou art a liquorish dog. But come, gentlemen, be 
all friends, and go home 'with me, and make final peace over a 
bottle.” 

“I ask your pardon, sir,” said Thwackum : “it is no such 
slight matter for a man of my character to be thus injuriously 
treated, and buffeted by a boy, only because I would have done 
my duty, in endeavouring to detect and bring to justice a wan- 
ton harlot; but, indeed, the principal fault lies in Mr Allworthy 
and yourself ; for if you put the laws in execution, as you ought 
to do, you will soon rid the country of these vermin.” 

“I would as soon rid the country of foxes,” cries Western. 
“I think we ought to encourage the recruiting those numbers 
which we are every day losing in the war. — But where is she? 
Prithee, Tom, show me.” He then began to beat about, in 
the same language and in the same manner as if he had been 
beating for a hare; and at last cried out, “Soho! Puss is not 
far off. Here’s her form, upon my soul; I believe I may cry 
stole away.” And indeed so he might; for he had now dis- 
covered the place whence the poor girl had, at the beginning 
of the fray, stolen away, upon as many feet as a hare generally 
uses in travelling. 

Sophia now desired her father to return home; saying she 
found herself very faint, and apprehended a relapse. The 
squire immediately complied with his daughter’s request (for 
he was the fondest of parents). He earnestly endeavoured to 
prevail with the whole company to go and sup with him: but 
Blifil and Thwackum absolutely refused; the former saying, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


115 

there were more reasons than he could then mention, why he 
must decline this honour; and the latter declaring (perhaps 
rightly) that it was not proper for a person of his function to 
be seen at any place in his present condition. 

Jones was incapable of refusing the pleasure of being with 
his Sophia; so on he marched with Squire Western and his 
ladies, the parson bringing up the rear. This had, indeed, of- 
fered to tarry with his brother Thwackum, professing his re- 
gard for the cloth would not permit him to depart ; but Thwack- 
um would not accept the favour, and, with no great civility, 
pushed him after Mr Western. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Of love . 

JN our recent chapters we have been obliged to deal 
pretty much with the passion of love; and in our succeed- 
ing ones shall be forced to handle this subject still more 
largely. It may not therefore in this place be improper to apply 
ourselves to the examination of that modern doctrine, by which 
certain philosophers, among many other wonderful discoveries, 
pretend to have found out, that there is no such passion in the 
human breast. 

Whether these philosophers be the same with that surprising 
sect, who are honourably mentioned by the late Dr Swift, as 
having by the mere force of genius alone, without the least as- 
sistance of any kind of learning, or even reading, discovered 
that profound and invaluable secret that there is no God; or 
whether they are not rather the same with those who some years 
since very much alarmed the world, by showing that there 
were no such things as virtue or goodness really existing in 
human nature, and who deduced our best actions from pride, 
I will not here presume to determine. In reality, I am inclined 
to suspect, that all these several finders of truth, are the very 
identical men who are by others called the finders of gold. The 
method used in both these searches after truth and after gold, 
being indeed one and the same, viz., the searching, rummaging, 
and examining into a nasty place; indeed, in the former in- 
stances, into the nastiest of all places, a bad mind. 

But though in this particular, and perhaps in their success, 
the truth-finder and the gold-finder may very properly be com- 
pared together; yet in modesty, surely, there can be no com- 
parison between the two; for who ever heard of a gold-finder 
that had the impudence or folly to assert, from the ill suc- 
cess of his search, that there was no such thing as gold in the 
world? whereas the truth-finder, having raked out that jakes, 
his own mind, and being there capable of tracing no ray of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


1 17 

divinity, nor anything virtuous or good, or lovely, or loving, 
very fairly, honestly, and logically concludes that no such things 
exist in the whole creation. 

To avoid, however, all contention, if possible, with these 
philosophers, if they will be called so ; and to show our own dis- 
position to accommodate matters peaceably between us, we shall 
make them some concessions, which may possibly put an end to 
the dispute. 

First, we will grant that many minds, and perhaps those of 
the philosophers, are entirely free from the least traces of such 
a passion. 

Secondly, that what is commonly called love, namely, the 
desire of satisfying a voracious appetite with a certain quantity 
of delicate white human flesh, is by no means that passion for 
which I here contend. This is indeed more properly hunger ; and 
as no glutton is ashamed to apply the word love to his appetite, 
and to say he loves such and such dishes; so may the lover of 
this kind, with equal propriety, say, he hungers after such and 
such women. 

Thirdly, I will grant, which I believe will be a most accep- 
table concession, that this love for which I am an advocate, 
though it satisfies itself in a much more delicate manner, doth 
nevertheless seek its own satisfaction as much as the grossest 
of all our appetites. 

And, lastly, that this love, when it operates towards one of 
a different sex, is very apt, towards its complete gratification, to 
call in the aid of that hunger which I have mentioned above; 
and which it is so far from abating, that it heightens all its de- 
lights to a degree scarce imaginable by those who have never 
been susceptible of any other emotions than what have pro- 
ceeded from appetite alone. 

In return to all these concessions, I desire of the philosophers 
to grant, that there is in some (I believe in many) human 
breasts a kind and benevolent disposition, which is gratified by 
contributing to the happiness of others. That in this gratifica- 
tion alone, as in friendship, in parental and filial affection, as 
indeed in general philanthropy, there is a great and exquisite 
delight. That if we will not call such disposition love, w T e have 
no name for it. That though the pleasures arising from such 
pure love may be heightened and sweetened by the assistance of 
amorous desires, yet the former can subsist alone, nor are they 


ii8 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


destroyed by the intervention of the latter. Lastly, that esteem 
and gratitude are the proper motives to love, as youth and beauty 
are to desire, and, therefore, though such desire may naturally 
ce&se, when age or sickness overtakes its object; yet these can 
have no effect on love, nor ever shake or remove, from a good 
mind, that sensation or passion which hath gratitude and esteem 
for its basis. 

To deny the existence of a passion of which we often see mani- 
fest instances, seems to be very strange and absurd ; and can 
indeed proceed only from that self-admonition which we have 
mentioned above: but how unfair is this! Doth the man who 
recognizes in his own heart no traces of avarice or ambition, 
conclude, therefore, that there are no such passions in human 
nature? Why will we not modestly observe the same rule in 
judging of the good, as well as the evil of others? Or why, in 
any case, will we, as Shakespear phrases it, “put the world in 
our own person?” 

Predominant vanity is, I am afraid, too much concerned here. 
This is one instance of that adulation which we bestow on our 
own minds, and this almost universally. For there is scarce 
any man, how much soever he may despise the character of a 
flatterer, but will condescend in the meanest manner to flatter 
himself. 

To those therefore I apply for the truth of the above observa- 
tions, whose own minds can bear testimony to what I have ad- 
vanced. 

Examine your heart, my good reader, and resolve whether 
you do believe these matters with me. If you do, you may now 
proceed to their exemplification in the following pages: if you 
do not, you have, I assure you, already read more than you have 
understood ; and it would be wiser to pursue your business, or 
your pleasures (such as they are), than to throw away any 
more of your time in reading what you can neither taste nor 
comprehend. To treat of the effects of love to you, must be as 
absurd as to discourse on colours to a man born blind; since 
possibly your idea of love may be as absurd as that which we 
are told such blind man once entertained of the colour scarlet; 
that colour seemed to him to be very much like the sound of 
a trumpet : and love probably may, in your opinion, very greatly 
resemble a dish of soup, or a sirloin of roast-beef. 


CHAPTER XII. 


The character of Mrs Western and an instance of her deep 
penetration. 

^JpHE reader hath seen Mr Western, his sister, and daugh- 
ter, with young Jones, and the parson, going together to 
Mr Western’s house, where the greater part of the company 
spent the evening with much joy and festivity. Sophia was 
indeed the only grave person ; for as to Jones, though love 
had not gotten entire possession of his heart, yet the pleasing 
reflection on Mr Allworthy’s recovery, and the presence of his 
mistress, joined to some tender looks which she now and then 
could not refrain from giving him, so elevated our hero, that 
he joined the mirth of the other three, who were perhaps as 
good-humoured people as any in the world. 

Sophia retained the same gravity of countenance the next 
morning at breakfast; whence she retired likewise earlier than 
usual, leaving her father and aunt together. The squire took 
no notice of this change in his daughter’s disposition. To say 
the truth, though he was somewhat of a politician, and had 
been twice a candidate in the country interest at an election, 
he was a man of no great observation. His sister was a lady of 
a different turn. She had lived about the court, and had seen 
the world. Hence she had acquired all that knowledge which 
the said world usually communicates; and was a perfect mis- 
tress of manners, customs, ceremonies, and fashions. Nor did 
her erudition stop here. She had considerably improved her 
mind by study; she had not only read all the modern plays, 
operas, oratorios, poems, and romances — in all which she was a 
critic; but had gone through Rapin’s History of England, 
Eachard’s Roman History, and many French Memoires pour 
servir a YHistoire: to these she had added most of the political 
pamphlets and journals published within the last twenty years. 
From which she had attained a very competent skill in politics, 
and could discourse very learnedly on the affairs of Europe. 


120 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


She was, moreover, excellently well skilled in the doctrine of 
amour, and knew better than anybody who and who were to- 
gether; a knowledge which she the more easily attained, as her 
pursuit of it was never diverted by any affairs of her own ; for 
either she had no inclinations, or they had never been solicited ; 
which last is indeed very probable; for her masculine person, 
which was near six foot high, added to her manner and learning, 
possibly prevented the other sex from regarding her, notwith- 
standing her petticoats, in the light of a woman. However, as 
she had considered the matter scientifically, she perfectly well 
knew, though she had never practised them, all the arts which 
fine ladies use when they desire to give encouragement, or to con- 
ceal liking, with all the long appendage of smiles, ogles, glances, 
&c., as they are at present practised in the beau-monde. To 
sum the whole, no species of disguise or affectation had escaped 
her notice ; but as to the plain simple workings of honest nature, 
as she had never seen any such, she could know but little of 
them. 

By means of this wonderful sagacity, Mrs Western had now, 
as she thought, made a discovery of something in the mind of 
Sophia. The first hint of this she took from the behaviour of 
the young lady in the field of battle; and the suspicion which 
she then conceived, was greatly corroborated by some observa- 
tions which she had made that evening and the next morning. 
However, being greatly cautious to avoid being found in a mis- 
take, she carried the secret a whole fortnight in her bosom, 
giving only some oblique hints, by simperings, winks, nods, and 
now and then dropping an obscure word, which indeed suffi- 
ciently alarmed Sophia, but did not at all affect her brother. 

Being at length, however, thoroughly satisfied of the truth 
of her observation, she took an opportunity, one morning, when 
she was alone with her brother, to interrupt one of his whistles 
in the following manner : — 

“Pray, brother, have you not observed something very extra- 
ordinary in my niece lately?” 

“No, not I,” answered Western; “is anything the matter 
with the girl?” 

“I think there is,” replied she; “and something of much con- 
sequence too.” 

“Why, she doth not complain of anything,” cries Western; 
“and she hath had the small-pox.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


121 


“Brother,” returned she, “girls are liable to other distempers 
besides the small-pox, and sometimes possibly to much worse. 
I believe, brother, you are convinced I know the world, and I 
promise you I was never more deceived in my life, if my niece 
be not most desperately in love.” 

“How! in love!” cries Western, in a passion; “in love, with- 
out acquainting me! I’ll disinherit her; I’ll turn her out of 
doors, stark naked, without a farthing. Is all my kindness 
vor ’ur, and vondness o’ ur come to this, to fall in love without 
asking me leave?” 

“But you will not,” answered Mrs Western, “turn this 
daughter, whom you love better than your own soul, out of 
doors, before you know whether you shall approve her choice. 
Suppose she should have fixed on the very person whom you 
yourself would wish, I hope you would not be angry then ?” 

“No, no,” cries Western, “that would make a difference. If 
she marries the man I would ha’ her, she may love whom she 
pleases, I shan’t trouble my head about that.” 

“That is spoken,” answered the sister, “like a sensible man; 
but I believe the very person she hath chosen would be the very 
person )^ou would choose for her. I will disclaim all knowl- 
edge of the world, if it is not so; and I believe, brother, you 
will allow I have some.” 

“Why, lookee, sister,” said Western, “I do believe you have 
as much as any woman ; and to be sure those are women’s mat- 
ters. You know I don’t love to hear you talk about politics; 
they belong to us, and petticoats should not meddle : but 
come, who is the man?” 

“Marry!” said she, “you may find him out yourself if you 
please. You, who are so great a politician, can be at no great 
loss. The judgment which can penetrate into the cabinet of 
princes, and discover the secret springs which move the great 
state wheels in all the political machines of Europe, must surely, 
with very little difficulty, find out what passes in the rude un- 
informed mind of a girl.” 

“Sister,” cries the squire, “I have often warn’d you not to talk 
the court gibberish to me. I tell you, I don’t understand the 
lingo: but I can read a journal, or the London Evening Post. 
Perhaps, indeed, there may be now and tan a verse which I 
can’t make much of, because half the letters are left out; yet 
I know very well what is meant by that, and that our affairs 


122 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


don’t go so well as they should do, because of bribery and cor- 
ruption.” 

“I pity your country ignorance from my heart,” cries the 
lady. 

“Do you?” answered Western; “and I pity your town 
learning; I had rather be anything than a courtier, and a Pres- 
byterian, and a Hanoverian too, as some people, I believe, are.” 

“If you mean me,” answered she, “you know I am a woman, 
brother; and it signifies nothing what I am. Besides ” 

“I do know you are a woman,” cries the squire, “and it’s well 
for thee that art one ; if hadst been a man, I promise thee I had 
lent thee a flick long ago.” 

“Ay, there,” said she, “in that flick lies all your fancied supe- 
riority. Your bodies, and not your brains, are stronger than ours. 
Believe me, it is well for you that you are able to beat us; or, 
such is the superiority of our understanding, we should make all 
of you what the brave, and wise, and witty, and polite are al- 
ready — our slaves.” 

“I am glad I know your mind,” answered the squire. “But 
we’ll talk more of this matter another time. At present, do tell 
me what man is it you mean about my daughter?” 

“Hold a moment,” said she, “while I digest that sovereign 
contempt I have for your sex; or else I ought to be angry too 

with you. There 1 have made a shift to gulp it down. And 

now, good politic sir, what think you of Mr Blifil? Did she not 
faint away on seeing him lie breathless on the ground ? Did she 
not, after he was recovered, turn pale again the moment we 
came up to that part of the field where he stood? And pray 
what else should be the occasion of all her melancholy that night 
at supper, the next morning, and indeed ever since?” 

“ ’Fore George!” cries the squire, “now you mind me on’t, I 
remember it all. It is certainly so, and I am glad on’t with all 
my heart. I knew Sophy was a good girl, and would not fall 
in love to make me angry. I was never more rejoiced in my life ; 
for nothing can lie so handy together as our two estates. I had 
this matter in my head some time ago : for certainly the two 
estates are in a manner joined together in matrimony already, 
and it would be a thousand pities to part them. It is true, in- 
deed, there be larger estates in the kingdom, but not in this 
county, and I had rather bate something, than marry my daugh- 
ter among strangers and foreigners. Besides, most o’ zuch great 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


123 


estates be in the hands of lords, and I heate the very name of 
themmum . Well, but, sister, what would you advise me to do; 
for I tell you women know these matters better than we do ?” 

“Oh, your humble servant, sir,” answered the lady: “we are 
obliged to you for allowing us a capacity in anything. Since you 
are pleased, then, most politic sir, to ask my advice, I think you 
may propose the match to Allworthy yourself. There is no in- 
decorum in the proposal’s coming from the parent of either side. 
King Alcinous, in Mr Pope’s Odyssey, offers his daughter to 
Ulysses. I need not caution so politic a person not to say that 
your daughter is in love ; that would indeed be against all rules.” 

“Well,” said the squire, “I will propose it; but I shall cer- 
tainly lend un a flick, if he should refuse me.” 

“Fear not,” cries Mrs Western; “the match is too advan- 
tageous to be refused.” 

“I don’t know that,” answered the squire: “Allworthy is a 
queer b — ch, and money hath no effect o’ un.” 

“Brother,” said the lady, “your politics astonish me. Are you 
really to be imposed on by professions? Do you think Mr All- 
worthy hath more contempt for money than other men because 
he professes more? Such credulity would better become one of 
us weak women, than that wise sex which heaven hath formed 
for politicians. Indeed, brother, you would make a fine plenipo 
to negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you, 
that they take towns out of mere defensive principles.” 

“Sister,” answered the squire, with much scorn, “let your 
friends at court answer for the towns taken ; as you are a 
woman, I shall lay no blame upon you; for I suppose they are 
wiser than to trust women with secrets.” 

He accompanied this with so sarcastical a laugh, that Mrs 
Western could bear no longer. She had been all this time 
fretted in a tender part (for she was indeed very deeply skilled 
in these matters, and very violent in them), and therefore, burst 
forth in a rage, declared her brother to be both a clown and a 
blockhead, and that she would stay no longer in his house. 

The squire, though perhaps he had never read Machiavel, was, 
however, in many points, a perfect politician. He strongly held 
all those wise tenets, which are so well inculcated in that Poli- 
tico-Peripatetic school of Exchange-alley. He knew the just 
value and only use of money, viz., to lay it up. He was likewise 
well skilled in the exact value of reversions, expectations, &c., 


124 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


and had often considered the amount of his sister’s fortune, and 
the chance which he or his posterity had of inheriting it. This 
he was infinitely too wise to sacrifice to a trifling resentment. 
When he found, therefore, he had carried matters too far, he 
began to think of reconciling them ; which was no very difficult 
task, as the lady had great affection for her brother, and still 
greater for her niece; and though too susceptible of an affront 
offered to her skill in politics, on which she much valued herself, 
was a woman of a very extraordinary good and sweet disposition. 

Having first, therefore, laid violent hands on the horses, for 
whose escape from the stable no place but the window was left 
open, he next applied himself to his sister ; softened and soothed 
her, by unsaying all he had said, and by assertions directly con- 
trary to those which had incensed her. Lastly, he summoned 
the eloquence of Sophia to his assistance, who, besides a most 
graceful and winning address, had the advantage of being heard 
with great favour and partiality by her aunt. 

The result of the whole was a kind smile from Mrs Western, 
who said, “Brother, you are absolutely a perfect Croat; but as 
those have their use in the army of the empress queen, so you 
likewise have some good in you. I will therefore once more sign 
a treaty of peace with you, and see that you do not infringe it 
on your side ; at least, as you are so excellent a politician, I may 
expect you will keep your leagues, like the French, till your 
interest calls upon you to break them.” 

The squire having settled matters with his sister, was so 
greatly impatient to communicate the proposal to Allworthy, 
that Mrs Western had the utmost difficulty to prevent him from 
visiting that gentleman in his sickness, for this purpose. 

Mr Allworthy had been engaged to dine with Mr Western 
at the time when he was taken ill. He was therefore no sooner 
discharged out of the custody of physic, but he thought (as was 
usual with him on all occasions, both the highest and the low- 
est) of fulfilling his engagement. 

In the interval between the time of the dialogue just re- 
ported, and this day of public entertainment, Sophia had, from 
certain obscure hints thrown out by her aunt, collected some ap- 
prehension that the sagacious lady suspected her passion for 
Jones. She now resolved to take this opportunity of wiping out 
all such suspicion, and for that purpose to put an entire con- 
straint on her behaviour. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


125 


First, she endeavoured to conceal a throbbing melancholy- 
heart with the utmost sprightliness in her countenance, and the 
highest gaiety in her manner. Secondly, she addressed her whole 
discourse to Mr Blifil, and took not the least notice of poor 
Jones the whole day. 

The squire was so delighted with this conduct of his daugh- 
ter, that he scarce eat any dinner, and spent almost his whole 
time in watching opportunities of conveying signs of his appro- 
bation by winks and nods to his sister ; who was not at first al- 
together so pleased with what she saw as was her brother. 

In short, Sophia so greatly overacted her part, that her aunt 
was at first staggered, and began to suspect some affectation in 
her niece; but as she was herself a woman of great art, so she 
soon attributed this to extreme art in Sophia. She remembered 
the many hints she had given her niece concerning her being 
in love, and imagined the young lady had taken this way to 
rally her out of her opinion, by an overacted civility: a notion 
that was greatly corroborated by the excessive gaiety with which 
the whole was accompanied. We cannot here avoid remarking, 
that this conjecture would have been better founded had Sophia 
lived ten years in the air of Grosvenor Square, where young 
ladies do learn a wonderful knack of rallying and playing with 
that passion, which is a mighty serious thing in woods and groves 
an hundred miles distant from London. 

Dinner being ended, and the company retired into the gar- 
den, Mr Western, who was thoroughly convinced of the cer- 
tainty of what his sister had told him, took Mr Allworthy aside, 
and very bluntly proposed a match between Sophia and young 
Mr Blifil. 

Mr Allworthy was not one of those men whose hearts flutter 
at any unexpected and sudden tidings of worldly profit. He 
received, therefore, Mr Western’s proposal without any visible 
emotion, or without any alteration of countenance. He said the 
alliance was such as he sincerely wished; then launched forth 
into a very just encomium on the young lady’s merits; acknowl- 
edged the offer to be advantageous in point of fortune; and after 
thanking Mr Western for the good opinion he had professed of 
^ his nephew, concluded, that if the young people liked each 
other, he should be very desirous to complete the affair. 

Western was a little disappointed at Mr Allworthy’s answer, 
which was not so warm as he expected. He treated the doubt 


126 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


whether the young people might like one another with great 
contempt, saying, that parents were the best judges of proper 
matches for their children: that for his part he should insist on 
the most resigned obedience from his daughter: and if any 
young fellow could refuse such a bed-fellow, he was his humble 
servant, and hoped there was no harm done. 

Allworthy was too well acquainted with his neighbour to be 
offended at this behaviour; and though he was so averse to the 
rigour which some parents exercise on their children in the 
article of marriage, that he had resolved never to force his 
nephew’s inclinations, he was nevertheless much pleased with the 
prospect of this union; for the whole country resounded the 
praises of Sophia, and he had himself greatly admired the un- 
common endowments of both her mind and person. To which I 
believe we may add, the consideration of her vast fortune, which, 
though he was too sober to be intoxicated with it, he was too 
sensible to despise. 

As soon, therefore, as he returned home, he took Mr Blifil 
apart, and after some preface, communicated to him the proposal 
which had been made by Mr Western, and at the same time in- 
formed him how agreeable this match would, be to himself. 

The charms of Sophia had not made the least impression on 
Blifil ; not that his heart was pre-engaged ; neither was he totally 
insensible of beauty, or had any aversion to women; but his 
appetites were by nature so moderate, that he was able, by 
philosophy, or by study, or by some other method, easily to sub- 
due them: and as to that passion which we have treated of in 
the preceding chapter, he had not the least tincture of it in his 
whole composition. 

But though he was so entirely free from that mixed passion, 
of which we there treated, and of which the virtues and beauty 
of Sophia formed so notable an object; yet was he altogether 
as well furnished with some other passions, that promised them- 
selves very full gratification in the young lady’s fortune. He, 
therefore, after a very short hesitation, answered Mr All worthy, 
that matrimony was a subject on which he had not yet thought; 
but that he was so sensible of his friendly and fatherly care, that 
he should in all things submit himself to his pleasure. 

Allworthy was naturally a man of spirit, and his present 
gravity arose from true wisdom and philosophy, not from 
any original phlegm in his disposition ; for he had possessed much 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


127 

fire in his youth, and had married a beautiful woman for love. 
He was not therefore greatly pleased with this cold answer of 
his nephew ; nor could he help launching forth into the praises 
of Sophia, and expressing some wonder that the heart of a 
young man could be impregnable to the force of such charms, 
unless it was guarded by some prior affection. 

Blifil assured him he had no such guard ; and then proceeded 
to discourse so wisely and religiously on love and marriage, that 
he would have stopt the mouth of a parent much less devoutly 
inclined than was his uncle. In the end, the good man was 
satisfied that his nephew, far from having any objections to 
Sophia, had that esteem for her, which in sober and virtuous 
minds is the sure foundation of friendship and love. With Mr 
Blifil’s consent therefore he wrote the next morning to Mr 
Western, acquainting him that his nephew had very thankfully 
and gladly received the proposal, and would be ready to wait 
on the young lady, whenever she should be pleased to accept 
his visit. 

Western was much pleased with this letter, and immediately 
returned an answer; in which, without having mentioned a 
word to his daughter, he appointed that very afternoon for 
opening the scene of courtship. 

As soon as he had dispatched this messenger, he went in quest 
of his sister, whom he found reading and expounding the Ga- 
zette to parson Supple. To this exposition he was obliged to at- 
tend near a quarter of an hour, though with great violence to 
his natural impetuosity, before he was suffered to speak. At 
length, however, he found an opportunity of acquainting the 
lady, that he had business of great consequence to impart to her ; 
to which she answered, “Brother, I am entirely at your service. 
Things look so well in the north, that -I was never in a better 
humour.” 

The parson then withdrawing, Western acquainted her with 
all which had passed, and desired her to communicate the affair 
to Sophia, which she readily and cheerfully undertook; though 
perhaps her brother was a little obliged to that agreeable north- 
ern aspect which had so delighted her, that he heard no com- 
ment on his proceedings; for they were certainly somewhat too 
hasty and violent. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


In which is related what passed between Sophia and her aunt ; 
containing also a dialogue between Sophia and Mrs Honour. 


QOPHIA was in her chamber, reading, when her aunt came 
in. The moment she saw Mrs Western, she shut the book 
with so much eagerness, that the good lady could not forbear 
asking her, what book that was which she seemed so much 
afraid of showing? 

“Upon my word, madam,” answered Sophia, “it is a book 
which I am neither ashamed nor afraid to own I have read. It 
is the production of a young lady of fashion, whose good under- 
standing, I think, doth honour to her sex, and whose good heart 
is an honour to human nature.” 

Mrs Western then took up the book, and immediately after 
threw it down, saying — “Yes, the author is of a very good 
family; but she is not much among people one knows. I have 
never read it; for the best judges say, there is not much in it.” 

“I dare not, madam, set up my own opinion,” says Sophia, 
“against the best judges, but there appears to me a great deal of 
human nature in it ; and in many parts so much true tenderness 
and delicacy, that it hath cost me many a tear.” 

“Ay, and do you love to cry then?” says the aunt. 

“I love a tender sensation,” answered the niece, “and would 
pay the price of a tear for it at any time.” 

“Well, but show me,” said the aunt, “what was you reading 
when I came in ; there was something very tender in that, I be- 
lieve, and very loving too. You blush, my dear Sophia. Ah! 
child, you should read books which would teach you a little 
hypocrisy, which would instruct you how to hide your thoughts 


a little better.” 

“I hope, madam,” answered Sophia, “I have no thoughts 
which I ought to be ashamed of discovering.” . 

“Ashamed ! no,” cries the aunt, “I don’t think you have any 
thoughts which you ought to be ashamed of; and yet, child, you 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


129 


blushed just now when I mentioned the word loving. Dear 
Sophy, be assured you have not one thought which I am not well 
acquainted with. Did you think, child, because you have been 
able to impose upon your father, that you could impose upon me ? 
Do you imagine I did not know the reason of your overacting 
all that friendship for Mr Blifil yesterday? I have seen a little 
too much of the world, to be so deceived. Nay, nay, do not blush 
again. I tell you it is a passion you need not be ashamed of. 
It is a passion I myself approve, and have already brought your 
father into the approbation of it. Come, I have news which 
will delight your very soul. Make me your confidant, and I will 
undertake you shall be happy to the very extent of your wishes.” 

“La, madam,” says Sophia, looking more foolishly than ever 
she did in her life, “I know not what to say — why, madam, 
should you suspect?” 

“Nay, no dishonesty,” returned Mrs Western. “Consider, 
you are speaking to one of your own sex, to an aunt; and I 
hope you are convinced you speak to a friend. Consider, you are 
only revealing to me what I know already, and what I plainly 
saw yesterday, through the most artful of all disguises, which 
you had put on, and which must have deceived any one who had 
not perfectly known the world. Lastly, consider it is a passion 
which I highly approve.” 

“La, madam,” says Sophia, “you come upon one so unawares, 
and on a sudden. To be sure, madam, I am not blind — and cer- 
tainly, if it be a fault to see all human perfections assembled to- 
gether — but is it possible my father and you, madam, can see 
with my eyes?” 

“I tell you,” answered the aunt, “we do entirely approve; and 
this very afternoon your father hath appointed for you to receive 
your lover.” 

“My father, this afternoon!” cries Sophia, with the blood 
starting from her face. 

“Yes, child,” said the aunt, “this afternoon. You know the 
impetuosity of my brother’s temper. I acquainted him with the 
passion which I first discovered in you that evening when you 
fainted away in the field. I saw it in your fainting. I saw it 
immediately upon your recovery. I saw it that evening at sup- 
per, and the next morning at breakfast (you know, child, I have 
seen the world). Well, I no sooner acquainted my brother, but 
he immediately wanted to propose it to Allworthy. He proposed 


130 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


it yesterday, Allworthy consented (as to be sure he must with 
joy), and this afternoon, I tell you, you are to put on all your 
best airs.” 

“This afternoon !” cries Sophia. “Dear aunt, you frighten me 
out of my senses.” 

“O, my dear,” said the aunt, “you will soon come to yourself 
again; for he is a charming young fellow, that’s the truth on’t.” 

“Nay, I will own,” says Sophia, “I know none with such per- 
fections. So brave, and yet so gentle ; so witty, yet so inoffensive ; 
so humane, so civil, so genteel, so handsome ! What signifies his 
being base born, when compared with such qualifications as 
these?” 

“Base born? What do you mean?” said the aunt, “Mr Blifil 
base born!” 

Sophia turned instantly pale at this name, and faintly repeated 
it. Upon which the aunt cried, “Mr Blifil — ay, Mr Blifil, of 
whom else have we been talking?” 

“Good heavens,” answered Sophia, ready to sink, “of Mr 
Jones, I thought; I am sure I know no other who deserves ” 

“I protest,” cries the aunt, “you frighten me in your turn. Is 
it Mr Jones, and not Mr Blifil, who is the object of your affec- 
tion?” 

“Mr Blifil!” repeated Sophia. “Sure it is impossible you can 
be in earnest ; if you are, I am the most miserable woman alive.” 

Mrs Western now stood a few moments silent, while sparks of 
fiery rage flashed from her eyes. At length, collecting all her 
force of voice, she thundered forth in the following articulate 
sounds: 

“And is it possible you can think of disgracing your family by 
allying yourself to a bastard? Can the blood of the Westerns 
submit to such contamination? If you have not sense sufficient 
to restrain such monstrous inclinations, I thought the pride of 
our family would have prevented you from giving the least en- 
couragement to so base an affection; much less did I imagine 
you would ever have had the assurance to own it to my face.” 

“Madam,” answered Sophia, trembling, “what I have said 
you have extorted from me. I do not remember to have ever 
mentioned the name of Mr Jones with approbation to any one 
before; nor should I now had I not conceived he had your ap- 
probation. Whatever were my thoughts of that poor, unhappy 
young man, I intended to have carried them with me to my 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 13 1 

grave — to that grave where only now, I find, I am to seek 
repose.” 

Here she sunk down in her chair, drowned in her tears, and, 
in all the moving silence of unutterable grief, presented a spec- 
tacle which must have aifected almost the hardest heart. All 
this tender sorrow, however, raised no compassion in her aunt. 
On the contrary, she now fell into the most violent rage. 

‘‘And I would rather,” she cried, in a most vehement voice, 
“follow you to your grave, than I would see you disgrace your- 
self and your family by such a match. O Heavens! could I have 
ever suspected that I should live to hear a niece of mine declare 
a passion for such a fellow? You are the first — yes, Miss West- 
ern, you are the first of your name who ever entertained so 
grovelling a thought. A family so noted for the prudence of 
its women.” She concluded with threatening to go immediately 
and acquaint her brother. 

Sophia then threw herself at her feet, and laying hold of her 
hands, begged her with tears to conceal what she had drawn 
from her; urging the violence of her father’s temper, and pro- 
testing that no inclinations of hers should ever prevail with her 
to do anything which might offend him. 

Mrs Western stood a moment looking at her, and then, hav- 
ing recollected herself, said, that on one consideration only 
she would keep the secret from her brother ; and this was, that 
Sophia should promise to entertain Mr Blifil that very afternoon 
as her lover, and to regard him as the person who was to be 
her husband. 

Poor Sophia was too much in her aunt’s power to deny her 
anything positively; she was obliged to promise that she would 
see Mr Blifil, and be as civil to him as possible; but begged her 
aunt that the match might not be hurried on. 

“Delay at least, madam,” said she, “I may expect from both 
your goodness and my father’s. Surely you will give me time 
to endeavour to get the better of so strong a disinclination as I 
have at present to this person.” 

The aunt answered, she knew too much of the world to be 
so deceived; that as she was sensible another man had her 
affections, she should persuade Mr Western to hasten the 
match as much as possible. “It would be bad politics, indeed,” 
added she, “to protract a siege when the enemy’s army is at 
hand, and in danger of relieving it. No, no, Sophy,” said she, 


132 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“as I am convinced you have a violent passion which you can 
never satisfy with honour, I will do all I can to put your 
honour out of the care of your family : for when you are married 
those matters will belong only to the consideration of your hus- 
band. I hope, child, you will always have prudence enough to 
act as becomes you ; but if you should not, marriage hath saved 
many a woman from ruin.” 

Sophia well understood what her aunt meant; but did not 
think proper to make her an answer. However, she took a 
resolution to see Mr Blifil, and to behave to him as civilly as 
she could, for on that condition only she obtained a promise 
from her aunt to keep secret the liking which her ill fortune, 
rather than any scheme of Mrs Western, had unhappily drawn 
from her. 

Mrs Western having obtained this promise from her niece 
withdrew; and presently after arrived Mrs Honour. She was 
at work in a neighbouring apartment, and had been summoned 
to the keyhole by some vociferation in the preceding dialogue, 
where she had continued during the remaining part of it. At 
her entry into the room, she found Sophia standing motionless, 
with the tears trickling from her eyes. Upon which she im- 
mediately ordered a proper quantity of tears into her own eyes, 
and then began, “O Gemini, my dear lady, what is the matter?” 

“Nothing,” cries Sophia. 

“Nothing! O dear madam!” answers Honour, “you must 
not tell me that, when your ladyship is in this taking, and when 
there hath been such a preamble between your ladyship and 
Madam Western.” 

“Don’t teaze me,” cries Sophia; “I tell you nothing is the 
matter. Good heavens! why was I born?” 

“Nay, madam,” says Mrs Honour, “you shall never per- 
suade me that your la’ship can lament yourself so for nothing. 
To be sure I am but a servant ; but to be sure I have been always 
faithful to your la’ship, and to be sure I would serve your la’ship 
with my life.” 

“My dear Honour,” says Sophia, “ ’tis not in thy power to 
be of any service to me. I am irretrievably undone.” 

“Heaven forbid!” answered the waiting-woman; “but if I 
can’t be of any service to you, pray tell me, madam — it will be 
some comfort to me to know — pray, dear ma’am, tell me what’s 
the matter.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


1 33 


“My father,” cries Sophia, “is going to marry me to a man 
I both despise and hate.” 

“O dear, ma’am,” answered the other, “who is this wicked 
man ? for to be sure he is very bad, or your la’ship would not 
despise him.” 

“His name is poison to my tongue,” replied Sophia: “thou 
wilt know it too soon.” 

Indeed, to confess the truth, she knew it already, and there- 
fore was not very inquisitive as to that point. She then pro- 
ceeded thus: “I don’t pretend to give your la’ship advice, 
whereof your la’ship knows much better than I can pretend to, 
being but a servant; but, i-fackins! no father in England should 
marry me against my consent. And, to be sure, the squire is 
so good, that if he did but know your la’ship despises and hates 
the young man, to be sure he would not desire you to marry 
him. And if j^our la’ship would but give me leave to tell my 
master so. To be sure, it would be more properer to come from 
your own mouth ; but as your la’ship doth not care to foul your 
tongue with his nasty name ” 

“You are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia; “my father was 
determined before he ever thought fit to mention it to me.” 

“More shame for him,” cries Honour: “you are to go to bed 
to him, and not master: and thof a man may be a very proper 
man, yet every woman mayn’t think him handsome alike. I 
am sure my master would never act in this manner of his own 
head. I wish some people would trouble themselves only with 
what belongs to them ; they would not, I believe, like to be 
served so, if it was their own case; for though I am a maid, 
I can easily believe as how all men are not equally agreeable. 
And what signifies your la’ship having so great a fortune, if 
you can’t please yourself with the man you think most hand- 
somest? Well, I say nothing; but to be sure it is a pity some 
folks had not been better born; nay, as for that matter, I 
should not mind it myself ; but then there is not so much money ; 
and what of that? your la’ship hath money enough for both; 
and where can your la’ship bestow your fortune better? for 
to be sure every one must allow that he is the most handsomest, 
charmingest, finest, tallest, properest man in the world.” 

“What do you mean by running on in this manner to me?” 
cries Sophia, with a very grave countenance. “Have I ever 
given any encouragement for these liberties?” 


134 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Nay, ma’am, I ask pardon ; I meant no harm,” answered 
she; “but to be sure the poor gentleman hath run in my head 
ever since I saw him this morning. To be sure, if your la’ship 
had but seen him just now, you must have pitied him. Poor 
gentleman! I wishes some misfortune hath not happened to 
him ; for he hath been walking about with his arms across, and 
looking so melancholy, all this morning: I vow and protest 
it made me almost cry to see him.” 

“To see whom?” says Sophia. 

“Poor Mr Jones,” answered Honour. 

“See him! why, where did you see him?” cries Sophia. 

“By the canal, ma’am,” says Honour. “There he hath been 
walking all this morning, and at last there he laid himself 
down : I believe he lies there still. To be sure, if it had not 
been for my modesty, being a maid, as I am, I should have gone 
and spoke to him. Do, ma’am, let me go and see, only for a 
fancy, whether he is there still.” 

“Pugh!” says Sophia. “There! no, no: what should he do 
there? Pie is gone before this time, to be sure. Besides, why — 
what — why should you go to see? besides, I want you for 
something else. Go, fetch me my hat and gloves. I shall walk 
with my aunt in the grove before dinner.” 

Honour did immediately as she was bid, and Sophia put her 
hat on; when, looking in the glass, she fancied the ribbon 
with which her hat was tied did not become her, and so sent 
her maid back again for a ribbon of a different colour; and 
then giving Mrs Honour repeated charges not to leave her 
work on any account, as she said it was in violent haste, and 
must be finished that very day, she muttered something more 
about going to the grove, and then sallied out the contrary way, 
and walked, as fast as her tender trembling limbs could carry 
her, directly towards the canal. 

Jones had been there as Mrs Honour had told her; he had 
indeed spent two hours there that morning in melancholy con- 
templation of his Sophia, and had gone out from the garden at 
one door the moment she entered it at another. So that those 
unlucky minutes which had been spent in changing the ribbons, 
had prevented the lovers from meeting at this time ; — a most un- 
fortunate accident, from which my fair readers will not fail to 
draw a very wholesome lesson. 

Sophia returned slowly to the house with a heavy heart, for 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


135 


she was not only disappointed of seeing the man she loved, but 
had the vexation of being obliged to dress herself out, in order 
to receive a visit from the man she hated. 

That afternoon Mr Western, for the first time, acquainted 
his daughter with his intention ; telling her, he knew very well 
that she had heard it before from her aunt. Sophia looked very 
grave upon this, nor could she prevent a few pearls from steal- 
ing into her eyes. 

“Come, come,” says Western, “none of your maidenish airs. 
You young girls never know what you would be at. So you 
cry because I am going to marry you to the man you are in 
love with! Your mother, I remember, whimpered and whined 
just in the same manner; but it was all over within twenty-four 
hours after we were married: Mr Blifil is a brisk young man, 
and will soon put an end to your squeamishness. Come, cheer 
up, cheer up; I expect un every minute.” 

Mr Blifil soon arrived; and Mr Western soon after with- 
drawing, left the young couple together. 

Here a long silence of near a quarter of an hour ensued ; for 
the gentleman who was to begin the conversation had all the 
unbecoming modesty which consists in bashfulness. He often 
attempted to speak, and as often suppressed his words just at 
the very point of utterance. At last out they broke in a torrent 
of far-fetched and high-strained compliments, which were an- 
swered on her side by downcast looks, half bows, and civil 
monosyllables. Blifil, from his inexperience in the ways of 
women, and from his conceit of himself, took this behaviour for 
a modest assent to his courtship ; and when, to shorten a scene 
which she could no longer support, Sophia rose up and left the 
room, he imputed that, too, merely to bashfulness, and com- 
forted himself that he should soon have enough of her com- 
pany. 

Mr Western took care to way-lay the lover at his exit from 
his mistress. He found him so elevated with his success, so 
enamoured with his daughter, and so satisfied with her reception 
of him, that the old gentleman began to caper and dance about 
his hall, and by many other antic actions to express the ex- 
travagance of his joy; for he had not the least command over 
any of his passions ; and that which had at any time the ascend- 
ant in his mind hurried him to the wildest excesses. 

As soon as Blifil was departed, which was not till after many 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


136 

hearty kisses and embraces bestowed on him by Western, the 
good squire went instantly in quest of his daughter, whom he 
no sooner found than he poured forth the most extravagant rap- 
tures, bidding her chuse what clothes and jewels she pleased; 
and declaring that he had no other use for fortune but to make 
her happy. He then caressed her again and again with the 
utmost profusion of fondness, called her by the most endearing 
names, and protested she was his only joy on earth. 

Sophia perceiving her father in this fit of affection, which she 
did not absolutely know the reason of (for fits of fondness were 
not unusual to him, though this was rather more violent than 
ordinary), thought she should never have a better opportunity 
of disclosing herself than at present, as far at least as regarded 
Mr Blifil; and she too well foresaw the necessity which she 
should soon be under of coming to a full explanation. After 
having thanked the squire, therefore, for all his professions of 
kindness, she added, with a look full of inexpressible softness, 
“And is it possible my papa can be so good to place all his joy in 
his Sophy’s happiness?” which Western having confirmed by a 
great oath, and a kiss; she then laid hold of his hand, and, 
falling on her knees, after many warm and passionate declara- 
tions of affection and duty, she begged him not to make her 
the most miserable creature on earth by forcing her to marry 
a man whom she detested. 

“This I entreat of you, dear sir,” said she, “for your sake, 
as well as my own, since you are so very kind to tell me your 
happiness depend? on mine.” 

“How! what!” says Western, staring wildly. 

“Oh! sir,” continued she, “not only your poor Sophy’s hap- 
piness; her very life, her being, depends upon your granting 
her request. I cannot live with Mr Blifil. To force me into 
this marriage would be killing me.” 

“You can’t live with Mr Blifil?” says Western. 

“No, upon my soul I can’t,” answered Sophia. 

“Then die and be d — d,” cries he, spurning her from him. 

“Oh! sir,” cries Sophia, catching hold of the skirt of his 
coat, “take pity on me, I beseech you. Don’t look and say 

such cruel Can you be unmoved while you see your Sophy 

in this dreadful condition? Can the best of fathers break my 
heart? Will he kill me by the most painful, cruel, lingering 
death ?” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


137 


“Pooh! pooh!” cries the squire; “all stuff and nonsense; all 
maidenish tricks. Kill you, indeed! Will marriage kill you?” 

“Oh! sir,” answered Sophia, “such a marriage is worse than 
death. He is not even indifferent; I hate and detest him.” 

“If you detest un never so much,” cries Western, “you shall 
ha’ un.” This he bound by an oath too shocking to repeat ; then 
broke from her with such violence, that her face dashed against 
the floor; and he burst directly out of the room, leaving poor 
Sophia prostrate on the ground. 

When Western came into the hall, he there found Jones; 
who seeing his friend looking wild, pale, and almost breath- 
less, could not forbear enquiring the reason of all these melan- 
choly appearances. Upon which the squire immediately ac- 
quainted him with the whole matter, concluding with bitter 
denunciations against Sophia, and very pathetic lamentations 
of the misery of all fathers who are so unfortunate as to have 
daughters. 

Jones, to whom all the resolutions which had been taken in 
favour of Blifil were yet a secret, was at first almost struck dead 
with this relation; but recovering his spirits a little, mere de- 
spair, as he afterwards said, inspired him to mention a matter 
to Mr Western, which seemed to require more impudence than 
a human forehead was ever gifted with. He desired leave to go 
to Sophia, that he might endeavour to obtain her concurrence 
with her father’s inclinations. 

If the squire had been as quicksighted as he was remarkable 
for the contrary, passion might at present very well have blinded 
him. He thanked Jones for offering to undertake the office, and 
said, “Go, go, prithee, try what canst do;” and then swore 
many execrable oaths that he would turn her out of doors un- 
less she consented to the match. 

Jones departed instantly in quest of Sophia, whom he found 
just risen from the ground, where her father had left her, 
with the tears trickling from her eyes, and the blood running 
from her lips. He presently ran to her, and with a voice full 
at once of tenderness and terrour, cried, “O my Sophia, what 
means this dreadful sight?” 

She looked softly at him for a moment before she spoke, and 
then said, “Mr Jones, for Heaven’s sake how came you here? — 
Leave me, I beseech you, this moment.” 

“Do not,” says he, “impose so harsh a command upon me — 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


138 

my heart bleeds faster than those lips. O Sophia, how easily 
could I drain my veins to preserve one drop of that dear 
blood.” 

“I have too many obligations to you already,” answered she, 
“for sure you meant them such.” Here she looked at him ten- 
derly almost a minute, and then bursting into an agony, cried, 
“Oh, Mr Jones, why did you save my life? my death would 
have been happier for us both.” 

“Happier for us both!” cried he. “Could racks or wheels kill 
me so painfully as Sophia’s — I cannot bear the dreadful sound. 
Do I live but for her ?” Both his voice and looks were full of 
inexpressible tenderness when he spoke these words; and at the 
same time he laid gently hold on her hand, which she did not 
withdraw from him ; to say the truth, she hardly knew what she 
did or suffered. 

A few moments now passed in silence between these lovers, 
while his eyes were eagerly fixed on Sophia, and hers de- 
clining towards the ground: at last she recovered strength 
enough to desire him again to leave her, for that her certain ruin 
would be the consequence of their being found together; add- 
ing, “Oh, Mr Jones, you know not, you know not what hath 
passed this cruel afternoon.” 

“I know all, my Sophia,” answered he; “your cruel father 
hath told me all, and he himself hath sent me hither to you.” 

“My father sent you to me!” replied she: “sure you dream.” 

“Would to Heaven,” cries he, “it was but a dream! Oh, 
Sophia, your father hath sent me to you, to be an advocate for 
my odious rival, to solicit you in his favour. I took any means 
to get access to you. O speak to me, Sophia! comfort my 
bleeding heart.” 

She stood a moment silent, and covered with confusion ; then 
lifting up her eyes gently towards him, she cried, “What would 
Mr Jones have me say?” 

“O do but promise,” cries he, “that you never will give your- 
self to Blifil.” 

“Name not,” answered she, “the detested sound. Be assured 
I never will give him what is in my power to withhold from 
him.” 

“Now then,” cries he, “while you are so perfectly kind, go a 
little farther, and add that I may hope.” 

“Alas!” says she, “Mr Jones, whither will you drive me? 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


139 


What hope have I to bestow? You know my father’s inten- 
tions.” 

“But I know,” answered he, “your compliance with them can- 
not be compelled.” 

“What,” says she, “must be the dreadful consequence of my 
disobedience? My own ruin is my least concern. I cannot 
bear the thoughts of being. the cause of my father’s misery.” 

“He is himself the cause,” cries Jones, “by exacting a 
power over you which Nature hath not given him. Think on 
the misery which I am to suffer if I am to lose you, and see on 
which side pity will turn the balance.” 

“Think of it!” replied she: “can you imagine I do not feel 
the ruin which I must bring on you, should I comply with your 
desire? It is that thought which gives me resolution to bid 
you fly from me for ever, and avoid your own destruction.” 

“I fear no destruction,” cries he, “but the loss of Sophia. 
If you would save me from the most bitter agonies, recall that 
cruel sentence. Indeed, I can never part with you, indeed I 
cannot.” 

The lovers now stood both silent and trembling, Sophia being 
* unable to withdraw her hand from Jones, and he almost as un- 
able to hold it; when the scene, which I believe some of my 
readers will think had lasted long enough, was interrupted by 
one of so different a nature, that we shall reserve the relation 
of it for a different chapter. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


Being of a much more tempestuous kind than the former . 

QOON after Jones had left Mr Western in the manner 
above mentioned, his sister came to him, and was presently 
informed of all that had passed between her brother and 
Sophia relating to Blifil. 

This behaviour in her niece the good lady construed to be an 
absolute breach of the condition on which she had engaged to 
keep her love for Mr Jones a secret. She considered herself, 
therefore, at full liberty to reveal all she knew to the squire, 
which she immediately did in the most explicit terms, and with- 
out any ceremony or preface. 

The idea of a marriage between Jones and his daughter, had 
never once entered into the squire’s head, either in the warmest 
minutes of his affection towards that young man, or from 
suspicion, or on any other occasion. He did indeed consider a 
parity of fortune and circumstances to be physically as necessary 
an ingredient in marriage, as difference of sexes, or any other es- 
sential ; and had no more apprehension of his daughter’s falling 
in love with a poor man, than with any animal of a different 
species. 

He became, therefore, like one thunderstruck at his sister’s 
relation. He was, at first, incapable of making any answer, hav- 
ing been almost deprived of his breath by the violence of the 
surprize. This, however, soon returned, and, as is usual in 
other cases after an intermission, with redoubled force and fury. 

The first use he made of the power of speech, after his re- 
covery from the sudden effects of his astonishment, was to dis- 
charge a round volley of oaths and imprecations. After which 
he proceeded hastily to the apartment where he expected to 
find the lovers, and murmured, or rather indeed roared forth, 
intentions of revenge every step he went. 

As when two doves, or two wood-pigeons, or as when Stre- 
phon and Phyllis (for that comes nearest to the mark) are 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


41 


retired into some pleasant solitary grove, to enjoy the delightful 
conversation of Love, that bashful boy, who cannot speak in 
public, and is never a good companion to more than two at a 
time; here, while every object is serene, should hoarse thunder 
burst suddenly through the shattered clouds, and rumbling roll 
along the sky, the frightened maid starts from the mossy bank 
or verdant turf, the pale livery of death succeeds the red regi- 
mentals in which Love had before drest her cheeks, fear shakes 
her whole frame, and her lover scarce supports her trembling, 
tottering limbs. 

So trembled poor Sophia, so turned she pale at the noise of 
her father, who, in a voice most dreadful to hear, came on 
swearing, cursing, and avowing the destruction of Jones. To 
say the truth, I believe the youth himself would, from some 
prudent considerations, have preferred another place of abode 
at this time, had his terror on Sophia’s account given him 
liberty to reflect a moment on what any otherways concerned 
himself, than as his love made him partake whatever affected 
her. 

And now the squire, having burst open the door, beheld 
an object which instantly suspended all his fury against Jones; 
this was the ghastly appearance of Sophia, who had fainted 
away in her lover’s arms. This tragical sight Mr Western 
no sooner beheld, than all his rage forsook him; he roared for 
help with his utmost violence; ran first to his daughter, then 
back to the door calling for water, and then back again to 
Sophia, never considering in whose arms she then was, nor 
perhaps once recollecting that there was such a person in the 
world as Jones. 

Mrs Western and a great number of servants soon came to 
the assistance of Sophia with water, cordials, and everything 
necessary on those occasions. These were applied with such 
success, that Sophia in a very few minutes began to recover, 
and all the symptoms of life to return. Upon which she was 
presently led off by her own maid and Mrs Western. 

The squire was no sooner cured of his immediate fears for 
his daughter, than he relapsed into his former frenzy, which 
must have produced an immediate battle with Jones, had not 
parson Supple, who was a very strong man, been present, and 
by mere force restrained the squire from acts of hostility. 

The moment Sophia was departed, Jones advanced in a very 


142 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


suppliant manner to Western, whom the parson held in his 
arms, and begged him to be pacified ; for that, while he con- 
tinued in such a passion, it would be impossible to give him any 
satisfaction. 

“I wull have satisfaction o’ thee,” answered the squire; “so 
doff thy clothes. At unt half a man, and I’ll lick thee as well 
as wast ever licked in thy life.” He then bespattered the youth 
with abundance of that language which passes between country 
gentlemen who embrace opposite sides of the question. 

To all this, Jones very calmly answered, “Sir, this usage 
may perhaps cancel every other obligation you have conferred 
on me; but there is one you can never cancel; nor will I be 
provoked by your abuse to lift my hand against the father of 
Sophia.” 

At these words the squire grew still more outrageous than 
before; so that the parson begged Jones to retire. 

Jones accepted this advice with thanks, and immediately 
departed. The squire now regained the liberty of his hands, 
and so much temper as to express some satisfaction in the re- 
straint which had been laid upon him; declaring that he should 
certainly have beat his brains out; and adding, “It would have 
vexed one confoundedly to have been hanged for such a rascal.” 

The parson began now to triumph in the success of his peace- 
making endeavours, and proceeded to read a lecture against 
anger, which might perhaps rather have tended to raise than 
to quiet that passion in some hasty minds. The squire took no 
notice of anything he said; for he interrupted him before he 
had finished, by calling for a tankard of beer; observing (which 
is perhaps as true as any observation on this fever of the mind) 
that anger makes a man dry. 

No sooner had the squire swallowed a large draught than 
he renewed the discourse on Jones, and declared a resolution 
of going the next morning early to acquaint Mr Allworthy; 
and that gentleman was just retired from breakfast with his 
nephew, well satisfied with the report of the young gentleman’s 
successful visit to Sophia (for he greatly desired the match, 
more on account of the young lady’s character than of her 
riches), when Mr Western broke abruptly in upon them, and 
without any ceremony began as follows : — 

“There, you have done a fine piece of work truly! You have 
brought up your bastard to a fine purpose; not that I believe 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


1 43 

you have had any hand in it neither, that is, as a man may say, 
designedly: but there is a fine kettle-of-fish made on’t up at our 
house.” 

“What can be the matter, Mr Western?” said Allworthy. 

“O, matter enow of all conscience: my daughter hath fallen 
in love with your bastard, that’s all; but I won’t ge her a 
hapeny, not the twentieth part of a brass varden. I always 
thought what would come o’ breeding up a bastard like a gentle- 
man, and letting un come about to vok’s houses. It’s well vor 
un I could not get at un: I’d lick’d un; I’d a spoil’d his cater- 
wauling; I’d a taught the son of a whore to meddle with meat 
for his master. He shan’t ever have a morsel of meat of mine, 
or a varden to buy it : if she will ha un, one smock shall be her 
portion. I’d sooner ge my esteate to the zinking fund, that it 
may be sent to Hanover to corrupt our nation with.” 

“I am heartily sorry,” cries Allworthy. 

“Pox 0’ your sorrow,” says Western; “it will do me abun- 
dance of good when I have lost my only child, my poor Sophy, 
that was the joy of my heart, and all the hope and comfort of 
my age; but I am resolved I will turn her out o’ doors; she 
shall beg, and starve, and rot in the streets. Not one hapeny, 
not a hapeny shall she ever hae o’ mine. The son of a bitch 
was always good at finding a hare sitting, an be rotted to’n: I 
little thought what puss he was looking after; but it shall be 
the w*orst he ever vound in his life. She shall be no better 
than carrion: the skin o’ ’er is all he shall ha, and zu you may 
tell un.” 

“I am in amazement,” cries Allworthy, “at what you tell me, 
after what passed between my nephew and the young lady no 
longer ago than yesterday.” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Western, “it was after what passed be- 
tween your nephew and she that the whole matter came out. 
Mr Blifil there was no sooner gone than the son of a whore 
came lurching about the house. Little did I think when I 
used to love him for a sportsman that he was all the while a 
poaching after my daughter.” 

“Why truly,” says Allworthy, “I could wish you had not 
given him so many opportunities with her ; and you will do me 
the justice to acknowledge that I have always been averse to 
his staying so much at your house, though I own I had no sus- 
picion of this kind,” 


144 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Why, zounds,” cries Western, “who could have thought 
it? What the devil had she to do wiff? He did not come 
there a courting to her; he came there a hunting with me.” 

“But was it possible,” says Allworthy, “that you should neve-r 
discern any symptoms of love between them, when you have 
seen them so often together?” 

“Never in my life, as I hope to be saved,” cries Western: “I 
never so much as zeed him kiss her in all my life ; and so far 
from courting her, he used rather to be more silent when she 
was in company than at any other time ; and as for the girl, she 
was always less civil to’n than to any young man that came to 
the house. As to that matter, I am not more easy to be de- 
ceived than another; I would not have you think I am, neigh- 
bour.” 

Allworthy could scarce refrain laughter at this; but he re- 
solved to do a violence to himself; for he perfectly well knew 
mankind, and had too much good-breeding and good-nature to 
offend the squire in his present circumstances. He then asked 
Western what he would have him do upon this occasion. To 
which the other answered, that he would have him keep the 
rascal away from his house, and that he would go and lock up 
the wench; for he was resolved to make her marry Mr Blifil 
in spite of her teeth. He then shook Blifil by the hand, and 
swore he would have no other son-in-law. Presently after 
which he took his leave; saying his house was in such disorder 
that it was necessary for him to make haste home, to take care 
his daughter did not give him the slip; and as for Jones, he 
swore if he caught him at his house, he would qualify him to 
run for the geldings’ plate. 

When Allworthy and Blifil were again left together, a long 
silence ensued between them; all which interval the young 
gentleman filled up with sighs, which proceeded partly from 
disappointment, but more from hatred ; for the success of Jones 
was much more grievous to him than the loss of Sophia. At 
length his uncle asked him what he was determined to do, and 
he answered in the following words : — 

“Alas! sir, can it be a question what step a lover will take, 
when reason and passion point different ways? I am afraid 
it is too certain he will, in that dilemma, always follow the 
latter. Reason dictates to me, to quit all thoughts of a woman 
who places her affections on another; my passion bids me hope 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


H5 

she may in time change her inclinations in my favour. Unless 
she does, she will, I am sure, be undone in every sense ; for, 
besides the loss of most part of her own fortune, she will be 
not only married to a beggar, but the little fortune which her 
father cannot withhold from her will be squandered on that 
wench with whom I know he yet converses. Nay, that is a 
trifle ; for I know him to be one of the worst men in the world ; 
for had my dear uncle known what I have hitherto endeavoured 
to conceal, he must have long since abandoned so profligate a 
wretch.” 

“How!” said Allworthy; “hath he done anything worse than 
I already know? Tell me, I beseech you?” 

“No,” replied Blifil; “it is now past, and perhaps he may have 
repented of it.” 

“I command you, on your duty,” said Allworthy, “to tell me 
what you mean.” 

“You know, sir,” says Blifil, “I never disobeyed you; but I 
am sorry I mentioned it, since it may now look like revenge, 
whereas, I thank Heaven, no such motive ever entered my heart ; 
and if you oblige me to discover it, I must be his petitioner to 
you for your forgiveness.” 

“I will have no conditions,” answered Allworthy; “I think 
I have shown tenderness enough towards him, and more perhaps 
than you ought to thank me for.” 

“More, indeed, I fear, than he deserved,” cries Blifil; “for 
in the very day of your utmost danger, when myself and all the 
family were in tears, he filled the house with riot and de- 
bauchery. He drank, and sung, and roared; and when I gave 
him a gentle hint of the indecency of his actions, he fell into a 
viol'ent passion, swore many oaths, called me rascal, and struck 
me.” 

“How!” cries Allworthy; “did he dare to strike you?” 

“I am sure,” cries Blifil, “I have forgiven him that long ago. 
I wish I could so easily forget his ingratitude to the best of 
benefactors; and yet even that I hope you will forgive him, 
since he must have certainly been possessed with the devil: for 
that very evening, as Mr Thwackum and myself were taking 
the air in the fields, and exulting in the good symptoms which 
then first began to discover themselves, we unluckily saw him 
engaged with a wench in a manner not fit to be mentioned. Mr 
Thwackum, with more boldness than prudence, advanced to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


146 

rebuke him, when (I am sorry to say it) he fell upon the worthy 
man, and beat him so outrageously that I wish he may have yet 
recovered the bruises. Nor was I without my share of the 
effects of his malice, while I endeavoured to protect my tutor; 
but that I have long forgiven; nay, I prevailed with Mr 
Thwackum to forgive him too, and not to inform you of a 
secret which I feared might be fatal to him.” 

“O child!” said Allworthy, “I know not whether I should 
blame or applaud your goodness, in concealing such villany a 
moment: but where is Mr Thwackum? Not that I want any 
confirmation of what you say; but I will examine all the evi- 
dence of this matter, to justify to the world the example I am 
resolved to make of such a monster.” 

Thwackum was now sent for, and presently appeared. He 
corroborated every circumstance which the other had deposed; 
nay, he produced the record upon his breast, where the hand- 
writing of Mr Jones remained very legible in black and blue. 
He concluded with declaring to Mr Allworthy, that he should 
have long since informed him of the matter, had not Mr Blifil, 
by the most earnest interpositions, prevented him. 

“He is,” says he, “an excellent youth: though such forgive- 
ness of enemies is carrying the matter too far.” 

In reality, Blifil had taken some pains to prevail with the par- 
son, and to prevent the discovery at that time; for which he 
had many reasons. He knew that the minds of men are apt 
to be softened and relaxed from their usual severity by sickness. 
Besides, he imagined that if the story was told when the fact 
was so recent, and the physician about the house, who might 
have unravelled the real truth, he should never be able to give 
it the malicious turn which he intended. 

It was Mr Allworthy’s custom never to punish any one, not 
even to turn away a servant, in a passion. He resolved there- 
fore to delay passing sentence on Jones till the afternoon. 

The poor young man attended at dinner, as usual ; and when 
dinner was over, and the servants departed, Mr Allworthy 
began to harangue. He set forth, in a long speech, the many 
iniquities of which Jones had been guilty, particularly those 
which this day had brought to light; and concluded by telling 
him, that unless he could clear himself of the charge, he was 
resolved to banish him from his sight for ever. 

Many disadvantages attended poor Jones in making his de- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


H7 


fence; nay, indeed, he hardly knew his accusation; for as Mr 
Allworthy, in recounting the drunkenness, &c., while he lay ill, 
out of modesty sunk everything that related particularly to him- 
self, which indeed principally constituted the crime ; Jones could 
not deny the charge. His heart was, besides, almost broken 
already ; and his spirits were so sunk, that he could say nothing 
for himself; but acknowledged the whole, and, like a criminal 
in despair, threw himself upon mercy. 

Allworthy answered, that he had forgiven him too often 
already, in compassion to his youth, and in hopes of his amend- 
ment: that he now found he w^as an abandoned reprobate, and 
such as it would be criminal in any one to support and encourage. 

“Nay,” said Mr Allworthy to him, “your audacious attempt 
to steal away the young lady, calls upon me to justify my own 
character in punishing you. However, as I have educated you 
like a child of my own, I will not turn you naked into the 
world. When you open this paper, therefore, you will find 
something which may enable you, with industry, to get an honest 
livelihood; but if you employ it to worse purposes, I shall not 
think myself obliged to supply you farther, being resolved, from 
this day forward, to converse no more with you on any account. 
I cannot avoid saying, there is no part of your conduct which I 
resent more than your ill-treatment of that good young man 
(meaning Blifil) who hath behaved with so much tenderness 
and honour towards you.” 

These last words were a dose almost too bitter to be swal- 
lowed. A flood of tears now gushed from the eyes of Jones, 
and every faculty of speech and motion seemed to have deserted 
him. It was some time before he was able to obey All worthy’s 
peremptory commands of departing; which he at length did, 
having first kissed his hands with a passion difficult to be 
affected, and as difficult to be described. 

He walked above a mile, not regarding, and indeed scarce 
knowing, whither he went. ' At length a little brook obstruct- 
ing his passage, he threw himself down by the side of it. Here 
he presently fell into the most violent agonies, tearing his hair 
from his head, and using most other actions which generally 
accompany fits of madness, rage, and despair. 

When he had in this manner vented the first emotions of 
passion, he began to come a little to himself. His grief now 
took another turn, and discharged itself in a gentler way, till he 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


148 

became at last cool enough to reason with his passion, and to 
consider what steps were proper to be taken in his deplorable 
condition. 

And now the great doubt was, how to act with regard to 
Sophia. The thoughts of leaving her almost rent his heart 
asunder; but the consideration of reducing her to ruin and beg- 
gary still racked him, and honour at last backed with despair, 
with gratitude to his benefactor, and with real love to his 
mistress, got the better of burning desire, and he resolved rather 
to quit Sophia, than pursue her to her ruin. 

It is difficult for any who have not felt it, to conceive the 
glowing warmth which filled his breast on the first contempla- 
tion of this victory over his passion. Pride flattered him so 
agreeably, that his mind perhaps enjoyed perfect happiness; but 
this was only momentary: Sophia soon returned to his imagina- 
tion, and allayed the joy of his triumph with no less bitter 
pangs than a good-natured general must feel, when he surveys 
the bleeding heaps, at the price of whose blood he hath 
purchased his laurels ; for thousands of tender ideas lay 
murdered before our conqueror. 

Being resolved, however, to pursue the paths of this giant 
honour, as the gigantic poet Lee calls it, he determined to write 
a farewell letter to Sophia; and accordingly proceeded to a 
house not far off, where, being furnished with proper materials, 
he wrote as follows: — 

“Madam, 

“When you reflect on the situation in which I write, 
I am sure your good-nature will pardon any inconsistency or 
absurdity which my letter contains; for everything here flows 
from a heart so full, that no language can express its dictates. 

“I have resolved, madam, to obey your commands, in flying 
for ever from your dear, your lovely sight. Cruel indeed those 
commands are ; but it is a cruelty which proceeds from fortune, 
not from my Sophia. Fortune hath made it necessary, necessary 
to your preservation, to forget there ever was such a wretch as 
I am. 

“O Sophia ! it is hard to leave you ; it is harder still to desire 
you to forget me; yet the sincerest love obliges me to both. 
Pardon my conceiving that any remembrance of me can give 
you disquiet; but if I am So gloriously wretched, sacrifice me 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


149 

every way to vour relief. Think I never loved you; or think 
truly how little I deserve you ; and learn to scorn me for a 
presumption which can never be too severely punished. — I am 
unable to say more. — May guardian angels protect you for 
ever !” 

He was now searching his pockets for his wax, but found 
none, nor indeed anything else, therein; for in truth he had, in 
his frantic disposition, tossed everything from him, and amongst 
the rest, his pocket-book, which he had received from Mr All- 
worthy, which he had never opened, and which now first 
occurred to his memory. 

The house supplied him with a wafer for his present purpose, 
with which, having sealed his letter, he returned hastily towards 
the brook side, in order to search for the?4:hings which he had 
there lost. In his way he met his old friend felack George, who 
heartily condoled with him on his misfortune; for this had 
already reached his ears, and indeed those of all the neighbour- 
hood. 

Jones acquainted the gamekeeper with his loss?- and he as 
readily went back with him to the brook, where they searched 
every tuft of grass in the meadow, as well where Jones had not ' 
been as where he had been ; but all to no purpose, for they found 
nothing; for, indeed, though the things were then in the 
meadow, they omitted to search the only place where they were 
deposited ; to wit, in the pockets of the said George ; for he had 
just before found them, and being luckily apprized of their 
value, had very carefully put them up for his own use. 

Jones now gave over all hopes of recovering his loss, and 
almost all thoughts concerning it, and turning to Black George, 
asked him earnestly if he would do him the greatest favour in 
the world? 

George answered with some hesitation, “Sir, you know you 
may command me whatever is in my power, and I heartily wish 
it was in my power to do you any service.” 

In fact, the question staggered him; for he had, by selling 
game, amassed a pretty good sum of money in Mr Western’s 
service, and was afraid that Jones wanted to borrow some small 
matter of him ; but he was presently relieved from his anxiety, 
by being desired to convey a letter to Sophia, which with great 
pleasure he promised to do. And indeed I believe there are 


150 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


few favours he would not have gladly conferred on Mr Jones; 
for he bore as much gratitude towards him as he could, and 
was as honest as men who love money better than any other 
thing in the universe, generally are. 

Mrs Honour was agreed by both to be the proper means by 
which this letter should pass to Sophia. They then separated; 
the gamekeeper returned home to Mr Western’s, and Jones 
walked to an alehouse at half a mile’s distance, to wait for his 
messenger’s return. 

George no sooner came home to his master’s house than he 
met with Mrs Honour; to whom, having first sounded her with 
a few previous questions, he delivered the letter for her mis- 
tress, and received at the same time another from her, for Mr 
Jones; which Honour told him she had carried all that day in 
her bosom, and began to despair of finding any means of de- 
livering it. 

The gamekeeper returned hastily and joyfully to Jones, who, 
having received Sophia’s letter from him, instantly withdrew, 
and eagerly breaking it open, read as follows: — 

“ SlR '« 

“It is impossible to express what I have felt since I saw 
you. Your submitting, on my account, to such cruel insults 
from my father, lays me under an obligation I shall ever own. 
As you know his temper, I beg you will, for my sake, avoid him. 
I wish I had any comfort to send you ; but believe this, that noth- 
ing but the last violence shall ever give my hand or heart where 
you would be sorry to see them bestowed.” 

Jones read this letter a hundred times over, and kissed it a 
hundred times as often. His passion now brought all tender 
desires back into his mind. He repented that he had writ to 
Sophia in the manner we have seen above; but he repented 
more that he had made use of the interval of his messenger’s ab- 
sence to write and dispatch a letter to Mr All worthy, in which 
he had faithfully promised and bound himself to quit all thoughts 
of his love. However, when his cool reflections returned, he 
plainly perceived that his case was neither mended nor altered 
by Sophia’s billet, unless to give him some little glimpse of 
hope, from her constancy, of some favourable accident hereafter. 

He therefore resumed his resolution, and taking leave of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


I5i 

Black George, set forward to a town about five miles distant, 
whither he had desired Mr Allworthy, unless he pleased to re- 
voke his sentence, to send his things after him. These he re- 
ceived from Mr Allworthy’s early in the morning, with the 
following answer to his letter: — 

“Sir, 

“I am commanded by my uncle to acquaint you, that as 
he did not proceed to those measures he had taken with you, 
without the greatest deliberation, and after the fullest evidence 
of your unworthiness, so will it be always out of your power to 
cause the least alteration in his resolution. He expresses great 
surprize at your presumption in saying you have resigned all 
pretensions to a young lady, to whom it is impossible you should 
ever have had any, her birth and fortune having made her so 
infinitely your superior. Lastly, I am commanded to tell you, 
that the only instance of your compliance with my uncle’s in- 
clinations which he requires, is, your immediately quitting this 
country. I cannot conclude this without offering you my advice, 
as a Christian, that you would seriously think of amending your 
life. That you may be assisted with grace so to do, will be 
always the prayer of 

“Your humble servant, 

“W. Blifil.” 

Many contending passions were raised in our hero’s mind by 
this letter; but the tender prevailed at last over the indignant 
and irascible, and a flood of tears came seasonably to his assist- 
ance, and possibly prevented his misfortunes from either turning 
his head, or bursting his heart. 

He grew, however, soon ashamed of indulging this remedy; 
and starting up, he cried, “Well, then, I will give Mr All- 
worthy the only instance he requires of my obedience. I will 
go this moment.” 

And now having taken a resolution to leave the country, he 
began to debate with himself whither he should go. The 
world, as Milton phrases it, lay all before him; and Jones, no 
more than Adam, had any man to whom he might resort for 
comfort or assistance. All his acquaintance were the acquaint- 
ance of Mr All worthy ; and he had no reason to expect any coun- 


152 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


tenance from them, as that gentleman had withdrawn his fa- 
vour from him. 

What course of life to pursue, or to what business to apply 
himself, was a second consideration : and here the prospect was 
all a melancholy void. Every profession, and every trade, re- 
quired length of time, and what was worse, money ; for matters 
are so constituted that “nothing out of nothing” is not a truer 
maxim in physics than in politics ; and every man who is greatly 
destitute of money, is on that account entirely excluded from 
all means of acquiring it. 

At last the Ocean, that hospitable friend to the wretched, 
opened her capacious arms to receive him; and he instantly re- 
solved to accept her kind invitation. To express myself less 
figuratively, he determined to go to sea. 

This thought indeed no sooner suggested itself, than he 
eagerly embraced it; and having presently hired horses, he set 
out for Bristol to put it in execution. 

But before we attend him on this expedition, we shall resort 
awhile to Mr. Western’s, and see what further happened to the 
charming Sophia. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Containing several dialogues, with the generous behaviour of 
Sophia towards her aunt. 

gOPHIA had passed the last twenty- four hours in no very 
desirable manner. During a large part of them she had 
been entertained by her aunt with lectures of prudence, which, 
though little suited either to the taste or inclination of Sophia, 
were, however, less irksome to her than her own thoughts, that 
formed the entertainment of the night, during which she never 
once closed her eyes. 

But though she could neither sleep nor rest in her bed, yet, 
having no avocation from it, she was found there by her father 
at his return from Allworthy’s, which was not till past ten 
o’clock in the morning. He went directly up to her apartment, 
opened the door, and seeing she was not up, cried, “Oh ! you are 
safe then, and I am resolved to keep you so.” He then locked 
the door, and delivered the key to Honour, having first given 
her the strictest charge, with great promises of rewards for her 
fidelity, and most dreadful menaces of punishment in case she 
should betray her trust. 

In the evening the gaoler Honour brought her mistress the 
letter which she received from the gamekeeper. Sophia read it 
very attentively twice or thrice over, and then threw herself 
upon the bed, and burst into a flood of tears. Mrs Honour ex- 
pressed great astonishment at this behaviour in her mistress; 
nor could she forbear very eagerly begging to know the cause 
of this passion. Sophia made her no answer for some time, and 
then, starting suddenly up, caught her maid by the hand, and 
cried, “O Honour! I am undone.” 

“Marry forbid,” cries Honour: “I wish the letter had been 
burnt before I had brought it to your la’ship. I’m sure I 
thought it would have comforted your la’ship, or I would have 
seen it at the devil before I would have touched it.” 

“Honour,” says Sophia, “you are a good girl, and it is vain to 


154 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


attempt concealing longer my weakness from you; I have 
thrown away my heart on a man who hath forsaken me.” 

“And is Mr Jones,” answered the maid, “such a perfidy 
man ?” 

“He hath taken his leave of me,” says Sophia, “for ever in 
that letter. Nay, he hath desired me to forget him. Could he 
have desired that if he had loved me? Could he have borne 
such a thought? Could he have written such a word?” 

“No, certainly, ma’am,” cries Honour ; “and to be sure, if the 
best man in England was to desire me to forget him, I’d take 
him at his word. Marry, come up! I am sure your la’ship 
hath done him too much honour ever to think on him; — a 
young lady who may take her choice of all the young men in the 
country. And to be sure, if I may be so presumptuous as to offer 
my poor opinion, there is young Mr Blifil, who, besides that he 
is come of honest parents, and will be one of the greatest squires 
all hereabouts, he is to be sure, in my poor opinion, a more hand- 
somer and more politer man by half; and besides, he is a young 
gentleman of a sober character, and who may defy any of the 
neighbours to say black is in his eye; he follows no dirty trol- 
lops, nor can any bastards be laid at his door. Forget him, in- 
deed ! I thank Heaven I myself am not so much at my last 
prayers as to suffer any man to bid me forget him twice. And 
as I was saying, to be sure, there is young Mr Blifil.” 

“Name not his detested name,” cries Sophia. 

“Nay, ma’am,” says Honour, “if your la’ship doth not like 
him, there be more jolly handsome young men that would court 
your la’ship, if they had but the least encouragement. I don’t 
believe there is arrow young gentleman in this county, or in 
the next to it, that if your la’ship was but to look as if you had 
a mind to him, would not come about to make his offers di- 
rectly.” 

“What a wretch dost thou imagine me,” cries Sophia, “by 
affronting my ears with such stuff! I detest all mankind.” 

“Nay, to be sure, ma’am,” answered Honour, “your la’ship 
hath had enough to give you a surfeit of them. To be used ill 
by such a poor, beggarly, bastardly fellow.” 

“Hold your blasphemous tongue,” cries Sophia: “how dare 
you mention his name with disrespect before me? He use me 
ill? No, his poor bleeding heart suffered more when he writ 
the cruel words than mine from reading them, O, Honour! 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


155 


it is my good only which he consults. To my interest he sacri- 
fices both himself and me. The apprehension of ruining me 
hath driven him to despair.” 

“I am very glad,” says Honour, “to hear your la’ship takes 
that into your consideration; for to be sure, it must be noth- 
ing less than ruin to give your mind to one that is turned out 
of doors, and is not worth a farthing in the world.” 

“Turned out of doors!” cries Sophia hastily: “how! what 
dost thou mean?” 

“Why, to be sure, ma’am, my master no sooner told Squire 
Allworthy about Mr Jones having offered to make love to your 
la’ship than the squire stripped him stark naked, and turned 
him out of doors!” 

“Ha!” says Sophia, “I have been the cursed, wretched cause 
of his destruction! Turned naked out of doors! Here, Hon- 
our, take all the money I have, take the rings from my fingers. 
Here, my watch: carry him all. Go find him immediately.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, ma’am,” answered Mrs Honour, “do but 
consider, if my master should miss any of these things, I should 
be made to answer for them. Therefore let me beg your la’ship 
not to part with your watch and jewels. Besides, the money, 
I think, is enough of all conscience; and as for that, my master 
can never know anything of the matter.” 

“Here, then,” cries Sophia, “take every farthing I am worth, 
find him out immediately, and give it him. Go, go, lose not a 
moment.” 

Mrs Honour departed according to orders, and finding Black 
George below-stairs, delivered him the purse, which contained 
sixteen guineas, being, indeed, the whole stock of Sophia; for 
though her father was very liberal to her, she was much too 
generous to be rich. 

Black George having received the purse, set forward towards 
the alehouse ; but in the way a thought occurred to him, whether 
he should not detain this money likewise. His conscience, how- 
ever, immediately started at this suggestion, and began to up- 
braid him with ingratitude to his benefactor. To this his 
avarice answered, chat his conscience should have considered 
the matter before, when he deprived poor Jones of his <£500. 
That having quietly acquiesced in what was of so much greater 
importance, it was absurd, if not downright hypocrisy, to affect 
any qualms at this trifle. In return to which, Conscience, like 


156 the HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

a good lawyer, attempted to distinguish between an absolute 
breach of trust, as here, where the goods were delivered, and a 
bare concealment of what was found, as in the former case. 
Avarice presently treated this with ridicule, called it a dis- 
tinction without a difference, and absolutely insisted that when 
once all pretensions of honour and virtue were given up in any 
one instance, that there was no precedent for resorting to them 
upon a second occasion. In short, poor Conscience had cer- 
tainly been defeated in the argument, had not Fear stept in to her 
assistance, and very strenuously urged that the real distinction 
between the two actions, did not lie in the different degrees of 
honour but of safety : for that the secreting the £500 was a mat- 
ter of very little hazard ; whereas the detaining the sixteen 
guineas was liable to the utmost danger of discovery. 

By this friendly aid of Fear, Conscience obtained, a compleat 
victory in the mind of Black George, and, after making him a 
few compliments on his honesty, forced him to deliver the 
money to Jones. 

Mrs Western had been engaged abroad all that day. The 
squire met her at her return home; and when she enquired 
after Sophia, he acquainted her that he had secured her safe 
enough. 

“She is locked up in chamber,” cries he, “and Honour keeps 
the key.” 

As his looks were full of prodigious wisdom and sagacity 
when he gave his sister this information, it is probable he ex- 
pected much applause from her for w T hat he had done; but 
how was he disappointed w T hen, with a most disdainful aspect, 
she cried, “Sure, brother, you are the weakest of all men. Why 
will you not confide in me for the management of my niece? 
Why will you interpose? You have now undone all that I 
have been spending my breath in order to bring about. While 
I have been endeavouring to fill her mind with maxims of pru- 
dence, you have been provoking her to reject them. English 
women, brother, I thank heaven, are no slaves. We are not 
to be locked up like the Spanish and Italian wives. We have 
as good a right to liberty as yourselves. We are to be con- 
vinced by reason and persuasion only, and not governed by 
force. I have seen the world, brother, and know what argu- 
ments to make use of ; and if your folly had not prevented me, 
should have prevailed with her to form her conduct by those 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


157 


rules of prudence and discretion which I formerly taught her.” 

“To be sure,” said the squire, “I am always in the wrong.” 

“Brother,” answered the lady, “you are not in the wrong, 
unless when you meddle with matters beyond your knowledge. 
You must agree that I have seen most of the world; and happy 
| had it been for my niece if she had not been taken from under 
my care. It is by living at home with you that she hath learnt 
| romantic notions of love and nonsense.” 

“You don’t imagine, I hope,” cries the squire, “that I have 
taught her any such things.” 

“Your ignorance, brother,” returned she, “as the great Mil- 
ton says, alfnost subdues my patience.”* 

“D — n Milton!” answered the squire: “if he had the impu- 
dence to say so to my face, I’d lend him a douse, thof he was 
never so great a man. Patience! An you come to that, sister, I 
have more occasion of patience, to be used like an overgrown 
schoolboy, as I am by you. Do you think no one hath any under- 
standing, unless he hath been about at court? Pox! the world 
is come to a fine pass indeed, if we are all fools, except a parcel 
uf round-heads and Hanover rats. Pox! I hope the times 
are a coming when we shall make fools of them, and every man 
shall enjoy his own. That’s all, sister; and every man shall 
enjoy his own. I hope to zee it, sister, before the Hanover rats 
have eat up all our corn, and left us nothing but turneps to feed 
upon.” 

“I protest, brother,” cries she, “you are now got beyond my 
understanding. Your jargon of turneps and Hanover rats is to 
me perfectly unintelligible.” 

“I believe,” cries he, “you don’t care to hear 0’ em; but the 
country interest may succeed one day or other for all that.” 

“I wish,” answered the lady, “you would think a little of 
your daughter’s interest ; for, believe me, she is in greater danger 
than the nation.” 

“Just now,” said he, “you chid me for thinking on her, and 
would ha’ her left to you.” 

“And if you will promise to interpose no more,” answered 
she, “I will, out of my regard to my niece, undertake the 
charge.” 

“Well, do then,” said the squire, “for you know I always 

*The reader may, perhaps, subdue his own patience, if he searches for this 
in Milton. 


158 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


agreed, that women are the properest to manage women.” 

Mrs Western then departed, muttering something, with an 
air of disdain, concerning women and management of the na- 
tion. She immediately summoned Sophia into her apartment, 
and having first acquainted her that she had obtained her lib- 
erty of her father, she proceeded to read her a long lecture on 
the subject of matrimony; which she treated not as a romantic 
scheme of happiness arising from love, but rather as a fund in 
which prudent women deposit their fortunes to the best ad- 
vantage. 

When Mrs Western had finished, Sophia answered, that she 
was very incapable of arguing with a lady of her aunt’s superior 
knowledge and experience, especially on a subject which she had 
so very little considered, as this of matrimony. 

“Argue with me, child!” replied the other; “I do not indeed 
expect it. I should have seen the world to very little purpose 
truly, if I am to argue with one of your years. I have taken 
this trouble, in order to instruct you. I am not ask' ig your 
opinion, but only informing you of mine.” 

“Madam,” cries Sophia, “I have never presumed to con- 
trovert any opinion of yours; and this subject, as I said, I 
have never yet thought of, and perhaps never may.” 

“Indeed, Sophy,” replied the aunt, “this dissimulation with 
me is very foolish. How can you, child, affect to deny that 
you have considered of contracting an alliance, when you so 
well know I am acquainted with the party with whom you de- 
sire to contract it? — an alliance as unnatural, and contrary to 
your interest, as a separate league with the French would be to 
the interest of the Dutch! But however, if you have not hith- 
erto considered of this matter, I promise you it is now high 
time, for my brother is resolved immediately to conclude the 
treaty with Mr Blifil; and indeed I am a sort of guarantee in 
the affair, and have promised your concurrence.” 

“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “this is the only instance in 
which I must disobey both yourself and my father. For this is 
a match which requires very little consideration in me to re- 
fuse.” 

“If I was not as great a philosopher as Socrates himself,” re- 
turned Mrs Western, “you would overcome my patience. 
What objection can you have to the young gentleman?” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


159 


“A very solid objection, in my opinion,” says Sophia — “I hate 
him.” 

“Will you never learn a proper use of words?” answered the 
aunt. “Indeed, child, you should consult Bailey’s Dictionary. 
It is impossible you should hate a man from whom you have re- 
ceived no injury. By hatred, therefore, you mean no more than 
dislike, which is no sufficient objection against your marrying 
of him. I have known many couples, who have entirely dis- 
liked each other, lead very comfortable genteel lives. Believe 
me, child, I know these things better than you. You will al- 
low me, I think, to have seen the world, in which I have not 
an acquaintance who would not rather be thought to dislike her 
husband than to like him. The contrary is such out-of-fashion 
romantic nonsense, that the very imagination of it is shocking.” 

“Indeed, madam,” replied Sophia, “I shall never marry a man 
I dislike. If I promise my father never to consent to any mar- 
riage contrary to his inclinations, I think I may hope he will 
never force me into that state contrary to my own.” 

“Inclinations!” cries the aunt, with some warmth. “In- 
clinations ! I am astonished at your assurance. A young woman 
of your age, and unmarried, to talk of inclinations ! But what- 
ever your inclinations may be, my brother is resolved ; nay, since 
you talk of inclinations, I shall advise him to hasten the treaty. 
Inclinations! So far, madam, from your being concerned alone, 
your concern is the least, or surely the least important. It is 
the honour of your family which is concerned in this alliance; 
you are only the instrument. Do you conceive, mistress, that in 
an intermarriage between kingdoms, as when a daughter of 
France is married into Spain, the princess herself is alone con- 
sidered in the match? No! it is a match between two king- 
doms, rather than between two persons. The same happens in 
great families such as ours. The alliance between the families 
is the principal matter. You ought to have greater regard for 
the honour of your family than for your own person ; and if the 
example of a princess cannot inspire you . with these noble 
thoughts, you cannot surely complain at being used no worse 
than all princesses are used.” 

“I hope, madam,” cries Sophia, with a little elevation of voice, 
“I shall never do anything to dishonour my family; but as for 
Mr Blifil, whatever may be the consequence, I am^ resolved 
against him, and no force shall prevail in his favour.” 


i6o the HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 

Western, who had been within hearing during the greater 
part of the preceding dialogue, had now exhausted all his pa- 
tience; he therefore entered the room in a violent passion, cry- 
ing, “D — n me then if shatunt ha’ un, d — n me if shatunt, that’s 
all — that’s all ; d — n me if shatunt.” 

Mrs Western had collected a sufficient quantity of wrath for 
the use of Sophia ; but she now transferred it all to the squire. 

“Brother,” said she, “it is astonishing that you will interfere 
in a matter which you had totally left to my negotiation. Re- 
gard to my family hath made me take upon myself to be the 
mediating power, in order to rectify those mistakes in policy 
which you have committed in your daughter’s education. For, 
brother, it is you — it is your preposterous conduct which hath 
eradicated all the seeds that I had formerly sown in her tender 
mind. It is you yourself who have taught her disobedience.” 

“Blood!” cries the squire, foaming at the mouth, “you are 
enough to conquer the patience of the devil ! Have I ever taught 
my daughter disobedience? — Here she stands; speak honestly, 
girl, did ever I bid you be disobedient to me? Have not I done 
everything to humour and to gratify you, and to make you 
obedient to me? And very obedient to me she was when a 
little child, before you took her in hand and spoiled her, by 
filling her head with a pack of court notions. Why — why — 
why — did I not overhear you telling her she must behave like a 
princess? You have made a Whig of the girl; and how should 
her father, or anybody else, expect any obedience from her?” 

“Brother,” answered Mrs Western, with an air of great 
disdain, “I cannot express the contempt I have for your politics 
of all kinds; but I will appeal likewise to the young lady her- 
self, whether I have ever taught her any principles of diso- 
bedience. On the contrary, niece, have I not endeavoured to in- 
spire you with a true idea of the several relations in which a hu- 
man creature stands in society? Have I not taken infinite pains 
to show you, that the law of nature hath enjoined a duty on 
children to their parents? Have I not told you what Plato says 
on that subject? — a subject on which you was so notoriously 
ignorant when you came first under my care, that I verily be- 
lieve you did not know the relation between a daughter and a 
father.” 

“ ’Tis a lie,” answered Western. “The girl is no such fool, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 161 

as to live to eleven years old without knowing that she was her 
father’s relation.” 

“O ! more than Gothic ignorance,” answered the lady. “And 
as for your manners, brother, I must tell you, they deserve a 
cane.” 

“Why then you may g” it me, if you think you are able,” 
cries the squire; “nay, I suppose your niece there will be ready 
enough to help you.” 

“Brother,” said Mrs Western, “though I despise you beyond 
expression, yet I shall endure your insolence no longer; so I 
desire my coach may be got ready immediately, for I am resolved 
to leave your house this very morning.” 

“And a good riddance too,” answered he; “I can bear your 
insolence no longer, an you come to that. Blood! it is almost 
enough of itself to make my daughter undervalue my sense, 
when she hears you telling me every minute you despise me.” 

“It is impossible, it is impossible,” cries the aunt; “no one 
can undervalue such a boor.” 

“Boar,” answered the squire, “I am no boar; no, nor ass; no, 
nor rat neither, madam. Remember that — I am no rat. I am a 
true Englishman, and not of your Hanover breed, that have 
eat up the nation.” 

“Thou art one of those wise men,” cries she, “whose nonsen- 
sical principles have undone the nation ; by weakening the hands 
of our government at home, and by discouraging our friends 
and encouraging our enemies abroad.” 

“Ho! are you come back to your politics?” cries the squire: 
“as for those I despise them as much as I do that !” 

Which last word he accompanied and graced with the very 
action, which, of all others, was the most proper to it. And 
whether it was this or the contempt exprest for her politics, 
which most affected Mrs Western, I will not determine; but 
she flew into the most violent rage, uttered phrases improper 
to be here related, and instantly burst out of the house. 

The squire sent after his sister the same holloa which attends 
the departure of a hare, when she is first started before the 
hounds, and having finished this and taken a little breath, be- 
gan to lament, in very pathetic terms, the unfortunate condition 
of men, who are, says he “always whipt in by the humours of 
some d — n’d b — or other. I think I was hard run enough by 
your mother for one man ; but after giving her a dodge, here’s 


1 62 the HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

another b — follows me upon the foil; but curse my jacket if 1 
will be run down in this manner by any o’ um.” 

Sophia never had a single dispute with her father, till this un- 
lucky affair of Blifil, on any account, except in jdefence of her 
mother, whom she had loved most tenderly, though she lost her 
in the eleventh year of her age. The squire, to whom that 
poor woman had been a faithful upper-servant all the time of 
their marriage, had returned that behaviour by making what the 
world calls a good husband. He very seldom swore at her (per- 
haps not above once a week) and never beat her: she had not 
the least occasion for jealousy, and was perfect mistress of her 
time; for she was never interrupted by her husband, who was 
engaged all the morning in his field exercises, and all the even- 
ing with bottle companions. She scarce indeed ever saw him 
but at meals ; where she had the pleasure of carving those dishes 
which she had before attended at the dressing. From these 
meals she retired about five minutes after the other servants, 
having only stayed to drink “the king over the water.” Such 
were, it seems, Mr Western’s orders; for it was a maxim with 
him, that women should come in with the first dish, and go out 
after the first glass. Obedience to these orders was perhaps no 
difficult task; for the conversation (if it may be called so) was 
seldom such as could entertain a lady. It consisted chiefly of 
hallowing, singing, relations of sporting adventures, and abuse 
of women, and of the government. 

Sophia kept silence during the foregoing speech of her father, 
nor did she once answer otherwise than with a sigh; but as he 
understood none of the language, or, as he called it, lingo of 
the eyes, so he was not satisfied without some further approba- 
tion of his sentiments, which he now demanded of his daughter ; 
telling her, in the usual way, he expected she was ready to take 
the part of everybody against him, as she had always done that 
of the b — her mother. 

Sophia remaining still silent, he cried out, “What, art 
dumb? why dost unt speak? Was not thy mother a d — d b — 
to me? answer me that. What, I suppose you despise your 
father too, and don’t think him good enough to speak to?” 

“For Heaven’s sake, sir,” answered Sophia, “do not give 
so cruel a turn to my silence. I am sure I would sooner die 
than be guilty of any disrespect towards you; but how can I 
venture to speak, when every word must either offend my dear 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


163 

papa, or convict me of the blackest ingratitude as well as im- 
piety to the memory of the best of mothers; for such, I am 
certain, my mamma was always to me?” 

‘‘And your aunt, I suppose, is the best of sisters too!” re- 
plied the squire. “Will you be so kind as to allow that she is a 
b — ? I may fairly insist upon that, I think?” 

“Indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have great obligations to my 
aunt. She hath been a second mother to me.” 

“And a second wife to me too,” returned Western; “so .you 
will take her part too! You won’t confess that she hath acted 
the part of the vilest sister in the world?” 

“Upon my word, sir,” cries Sophia, “I must belie my heart 
wickedly if I did. I know my aunt and you differ very much 
in your ways of thinking; but I have heard her a thousand 
time express the greatest affection for you ; and I am convinced, 
so far from her being the worst sister in the world, there are 
very few w T ho love a brother better.” 

“The English of all which is,” answered the squire, “that I 
am in the wrong. Ay, certainly. Ay, to be sure the woman is 
in the right, and the man in the wrong always.” 

“Pardon me, sir,” cries Sophia. “I do not say so.” 

“What don’t you say?” answered the father: “you have the 
impudence to say she’s in the right: doth it not follow then of 
course that I am in the wrong? And perhaps I am in the 
wrong to suffer such a Presbyterian Hanoverian b — to come 
into my house. She may ’dite me of a plot for anything I know, 
and give my estate to the government.” 

“So far, sir, from injuring you or your estate,” says Sophia, 
“if my aunt had died yesterday, I am convinced she would have 
left you her whole fortune.” 

Whether Sophia intended it or no, I shall not presume to 
assert; but certain it is, these last words penetrated very deep 
into the ears of her father, and produced a much more sensible 
effect than all she had said before. He received the sound with 
much the same action as a man receives a bullet in his head. 
He started, staggered, and turned pale. After which he re- 
mained silent above a minute, and then began in the following 
hesitating manner: 

“Yesterday! she would have left me her esteate yesterday! 
would she? Why yesterday, of all the days in the year? I 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


164 

suppose if she dies to-morrow, she will leave it to somebody 
else, and perhaps out of the vamily.” 

“My aunt, sir,” cries Sophia, “hath very violent passions, and 
I can’t answer what she may do under their influence.” 

“You can’t!” returned the father; “and pray who hath been 
the occasion of putting her into those violent passions? Nay, 
who hath actually put her into them? Was not you and she 
hard at it before I came into the room? Besides, was not all 
our quarrel about you? I have not quarrelled with sister this 
many years but upon your account ; and now you would throw 
the whole blame upon me, as thof I should be the occasion of 
her leaving the estate out o’ the vamily. I could have expected 
no better indeed; this is like the return you make to all the 
rest of my fondness.” 

“I beseech you then,” cries Sophia, “upon my knees I be- 
seech you, if I have been the unhappy occasion of this difference, 
that you will endeavour to make it up with my aunt, and not 
suffer her to leave your house in this violent rage of anger: 
she is a very good-natured woman, and a few civil words will 
satisfy her. Let me entreat you, sir.” 

“So I must go and ask pardon for your fault, must I?” an- 
swered Western. “You have lost the hare, and I must draw 
every way to find her again? Indeed, if I was certain ” 

Here he stopt, and Sophia throwing in more entreaties, at 
length prevailed upon him; so that after venting two or three 
bitter sarcastical expressions against his daughter, he departed 
as fast as he could to recover his sister, before her equipage could 
be gotten ready. 

By good fortune, he overtook her just as she was stepping 
into the coach, and partly by force, and partly by solicitations, 
prevailed upon her to order her horses back into their quarters. 
Poor Sophia, who had first set on foot this reconciliation, was 
now made the sacrifice to it. They both concurred in their 
censures on her conduct; jointly declared war against her, and 
directly proceeded to counsel, how to carry it on in the most 
vigorous manner. For this purpose, Mrs Western proposed not 
only an immediate conclusion of the treaty with Allworthy, 
but as immediately to carry it into execution ; saying, that there 
was no other way to succeed with her niece, but by violent 
methods, which she was convinced Sophia had not sufficient reso- 
lution to resist. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


165 

These matters were resolved on, when Mr Blifil came to pay 
a visit to his mistress. The squire no sooner heard of his ar- 
rival, than he stept aside, by his sister’s advice, to give his 
daughter orders for the proper reception of her lover: which he 
did with the most bitter execrations and denunciations of judg- 
ment of her refusal. 

The impetuosity of the squire bore down all before him; and 
Sophia, as her aunt very wisely foresaw, was not able to resist 
him. She agreed, therefore, to see Blifil, though she had scarce 
spirits or strength sufficient to utter her assent. Indeed, to give 
a peremptory denial to a father whom she so tenderly loved, was 
no easy task. 

In pursuance, therefore, of her father’s peremptory command, 
Sophia now admitted Mr Blifil’s visit. It is possible the great 
art used by Blifil at this interview would have prevailed on 
Sophia to have made another man in his circumstances her con- 
fidant, and to have revealed the whole secret of her heart to 
him ; but she had contracted so ill an opinion of this young 
gentleman, that she was resolved to place no confidence in him; 
for simplicity, when set on its guard, is often a match for cun- 
ning. Her behaviour to him, therefore, was entirely forced, 
and indeed such as is generally prescribed to virgins upon the 
second formal visit from one who is appointed for their husband. 

But though Blifil declared himself to the squire perfectly 
satisfied with his reception; yet that gentleman, who, in com- 
pany with his sister, had overheard all, was not so well pleased. 
He resolved, in pursuance of the advice of the sage lady, to push 
matters as forward as possible ; and addressing himself to his in- 
tended son-in-law in the hunting phrase, he cried, after a loud 
holla, “Follow her, boy, follow her; run in, run in; that’s it, 
honeys. Dead, dead, dead. Never be bashful, nor stand shall 
I, shall I ? Allworthy and I can finish all matters between us 
this afternoon, and let us ha’ the wedding to-morrow.” 

Blifil having conveyed the utmost satisfaction into his counte- 
nance, answered, “As there is nothing, sir, in this world which 
I so eagerly desire as an alliance with your family, except my 
union with the most amiable and deserving Sophia, you may 
easily imagine how impatient I must be to see myself in posses- 
sion of my two highest wishes. If I have not therefore impor- 
tuned you on this head, you will impute it only to my fear of 
offending the lady, by endeavouring to hurry on so blessed an 


i66 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


event faster than a strict compliance with all the rules of de- 
cency and decorum will permit. But if, by your interest, sir, 
she might be induced to dispense with any formalities ” 

“Formalities! with a pox!” answered the squire. “Pooh, all 
stuff and nonsense! I tell thee, she shall ha’ thee to-morrow: 
you will know the world better hereafter, when you come to my 
age. Women never gi’ their consent, man, if they can help it, 
’tis not the fashion. If I had stayed for her mother’s consent, I 

might have been a bachelor to this day. To her, to her, co to 

her, that’s it, you jolly dog. I tell thee shat ha’ her to-morrow 
morning.” 

Blifil suffered himself to be overpowered by the forcible 
rhetoric of the squire; and it being agreed that Western should 
close with Allworthy that very afternoon, the lover departed 
home, having first earnestly begged that no violence might be 
offered to the lady by this haste, in the same manner as a popish 
inquisitor begs the lay power to do no violence to the heretic de- 
livered over to it, and against whom the church hath passed 
sentence. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A strange resolution of Sophia, and a more strange stratagem of 
Mrs Honour. 

^pHOUGH Mrs Honour was principally attached to her own 
interest, she was not without some little attachment to 
Sophia. To say the truth, it was very difficult for any one to ' 
know that young lady without loving her. She no sooner there- 
fore heard a piece of news, which she imagined to be of great 
importance to her mistress, than, quite forgetting the anger 
which she had conceived two days before, at her unpleasant 
dismission from Sophia’s presence, she ran hastily to inform her 
of the news. The beginning of her discourse was as abrupt as 
her entrance into the room. 

“O dear ma’am!” says she, “what doth your la’ship think? 
To be sure I am frightened out of my wits; and yet I thought 
it my duty to tell your la’ship, though perhaps it may make you 
angry, for we servants don’t always know what will make our 
ladies angry; for, to be sure, everything is always laid to the 
charge of a servant. When our ladies are out of humour, to be 
sure we must be scolded ; and to be sure I should not wonder 
if your la’ship should be out of humour; nay, it must surprize 
you certainly, ay, and shock you too.” 

“Good Honour, let me know it without any longer preface,” 
says Sophia; “there are few things, I promise you, which will 
surprize, and fewer which will shock me.” 

“Dear ma’am,” answered Honour, “to be sure, I overheard 
my master talking to parson Supple about getting a licence this 
very afternoon ; and to be sure I heard him say, your la ship 
should be married to-morrow morning.” 

Sophia turned pale at these words, and repeated eagerly, 
“To-morrow morning!” 

“Yes, ma’am,” replied the trusty waiting-woman, “I will take 
my oath I heard my master say so.” 

“Honour,” says Sophia, “you have both surprized and shocked 


i68 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


me to such a degree that I have scarce any breath or spirits left. 
What is to be done in my dreadful situation?” 

“I wish I was able to advise your la’ship,” says she. 

“Do advise me,” cries Sophia; “pray, dear Honour, advise me. 
Think what you would attempt if it was your case.” 

“Indeed, ma’am,” cries Honour, “I wish your la’ship and I 
could change situations; that is, I mean without hurting your 
la’ship ; for to be sure I don’t wish you so bad as to be a servant ; 
but because that if so be it was my case, I should find no manner 
of difficulty in it; for, in my poor opinion, young Squire Blifil 
is a charming, sweet, handsome man.” 

“Don’t mention such stuff,” cries Sophia. 

“Such stuff!” repeated Honour; “why, there. Well, to be 
sure, what’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and the 
same is altogether as true of women.” 

“Honour,” says Sophia, “rather than submit to be the wife 
o-f that contemptible wretch, I would plunge a dagger into my' 
heart.” 

“O ludi ma’am!” answered the other, “I am sure you 
frighten me out of my wits now. Let me beseech your la’ship 
not to suffer such wicked thoughts to come into your head. 
O lud! to be sure I tremble every inch of me. Dear ma’am, 
consider, that to be denied Christian burial, and to have your 
corpse buried in the highway, and a stake drove through you, 
as farmer Halfpenny was served at Ox Cross; and, to be sure, 
his ghost hath walked there ever since, for several people have 
seen him. To be sure it can be nothing but the devil which can 
put such wicked thoughts into the head of anybody; for cer- 
tainly it is less wicked to hurt all the world than one’s own dear 
self; and so I have heard said by more parsons than one. If 
your la’ship hath such violent aversion, and hates the young 
gentleman so very bad, that you can’t bear to think of going into 
bed to him ; for to be sure there may be such antipathies in na- 
ture, and one had lieverer touch a toad than the flesh of some 
people ” 

Sophia had been too much wrapt in contemplation to pay any 
great attention to the foregoing excellent discourse of her maid ; 
interrupting her therefore, without making any answer to it, 
she said, “Honour, I am come to a resolution. I am determined 
to leave my father’s house this very night; and if you have the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 1 69 

friendship for me which you have often professed, you will 
keep me company.” 

“That I will, ma’am, to the world’s end,” answered Hon- 
our; “but I beg your la’ship to consider the consequence before 
you undertake any rash action. Where can your la’ship possi- 
bly go?” 

“There is,” replied Sophia, “a lady of quality in London, a 
relation of mine, who spent several months with my aunt in the 
country; during all which time she treated me with great kind- 
ness, and expressed so much pleasure in my company, that she 
earnestly desired my aunt to suffer me to go with her to Lon- 
don. As she is a woman of very great note, I shall easily find 
her out, and I make no doubt of being very well and kindly 
received by her.” 

“I would not have your la’ship too confident of that,” cries 
Honour; “for the first lady I lived with used to invite people 
very earnestly to her house; but if she heard afterwards they 
were coming, she used to get out of the way. Besides, though 
this lady would be very glad to see your la’ship, as to be sure 
anybody would be glad to see your la’ship, yet when she hears 
your la’ship is run away from my master ” 

“You are mistaken, Honour,” says Sophia: “she looks upon 
the authority of a father in a much lower light than I do; for 
she pressed me violently to go to London with her, and when 
I refused to go without my father’s consent, she laughed me to 
scorn, called me silly country girl, and said, I should make a 
pure loving wife, since I could be so dutiful a daughter. So 
I have no doubt but she will both receive me and protect me 
too, till my father, finding me out of his power, can be brought 
to some reason.” 

“Well, but, ma’am,” answered Honour, “how doth your 
la’ship think of making your escape? Where will you get any 
horses or conveyance? For as for your own horse, as all the 
servants know a little how matters stand between my master 
and your la’ship, Robin will be hanged before he will suffer it 
to go out of the stable without my master’s express orders.” 

“I intend to escape,” said Sophia, “by walking out of the 
doors when they are open. I thank Heaven my legs are very 
able to carry me. They have supported me many a long even- 
ing after a fiddle, with no very agreeable partner; and surely 


170 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


they will assist me in running from so detestable a partner for 
life.” 

“Oh Heaven, ma’am! doth your la’ship know what you are 
saying?” cries Honour; “would you think of walking about the 
country by night and alone?” 

“Not alone,” answered the lady; “you have promised to bear 
me company.” 

“Yes, to be sure,” cries Honour, “I will follow your la’ship 
through the world; but your la’ship had almost as good be 
alone : for I should not be able to defend you, if any robbers, or 
other villains, should meet with you. Nay, I should be in as 
horrible a fright as your la’ship; for to be certain, they would 
ravish us both. Besides, ma’am, consider how cold the nights are 
now; we shall be frozen to death.” 

“A good brisk pace,” answered Sophia, ‘‘will preserve us from 
the cold ; and if you cannot defend me from a villain, Honour, 
I will defend you ; for I will take a pistol with me. There are 
two always charged in the hall.” 

“Dear ma’am, you frighten me more and more,” cries Hon- 
our: “sure your la’ship would not venture to fire it off ! I had 
rather run any chance than your la’ship should do that.” 

“Why so?” says Sophia, smiling; “would not you, Honour, 
fire a pistol at any one who should attack your virtue?” 

“To be sure, ma’am,” cries Honour, “one’s virtue is a dear 
thing, especially to us poor servants; for it is our livelihood, as 
a body may say : yet I mortally hate fire-arms ; for so many ac- 
cidents happen by them.” 

“Well, well,” says Sophia, “I believe I may ensure your vir- 
tue at a very cheap rate, without carrying any arms with us ; for 
I intend to take horses at the very first town we come to, and 
we shall hardly be attacked in our way thither. Look’ee, Hon- 
our, I am resolved to go ; and if you will attend me, I promise 
you I will reward you to the very utmost of my power.” 

This last argument had a stronger effect on Honour than all 
the preceding. And since she saw her mistress so determined, 
she desisted from any further dissuasions. They then entered 
into a debate . on ways and means of executing their project. 
Here a very stubborn difficulty occurred, and this was the re- 
moval of their effects, which was much more easily got over by 
the mistress than by the maid ; for when a lady hath once taken 
a resolution to run to a lover, or to run from him, all obstacles 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


171 

are considered as trifles. But Honour was inspired by no such 
motive ; she had no raptures to expect, nor any terrors to shun ; 
and besides the real value of her clothes, in which consisted a 
great part of her fortune, she had a capricious fondness for 
several gowns, and other things ; either because they became her, 
or because they were given her by such particular person ; because 
she had bought them lately, or because she had had them long; 
or for some other reasons equally good; so that she could not 
endure the thoughts of leaving the poor things behind her ex- 
posed to the mercy of Western, who, she doubted not, would in 
his rage make them suffer martyrdom. 

The ingenious Mrs Honour having applied all her oratory to 
dissuade her mistress from her purpose, when she found her 
positively determined, at last started the following expedient to 
remove her clothes, viz., to get herself turned out of doors that 
very evening. Sophia highly approved this method, but doubted 
how it might be brought about. 

“O, ma’am,” cries Honour, “y° ur la’ship may trust that to 
me; we servants very well know how to obtain this favour of 
our masters and mistresses; though sometimes, indeed, where 
they owe us more wages than they can readily pay, they will 
put up with all our affronts, and will hardly take any warning 
we can give them; but the squire is none of those; and since 
your la’ship is resolved upon setting out to-night, I warrant I 
get discharged this afternoon.” 

It was then resolved that she should pack up some linen and 
a night-gown for Sophia with her own things; and as for all 
her other clothes, the young lady abandoned them with no 
more remorse than the sailor feels when he throws over the 
goods of others, in order to save his own life. 

Mrs Honour had scarce sooner parted from her young lady, 
than something (for I would not, like the old woman in Que- 
vedo, injure the devil by any false accusation, and possibly he 
might have no hand in it) — but something, I say, suggested it- 
self to her, that by sacrificing Sophia and all her secrets to Mr. 
Western, she might probably make her fortune. But while she 
was pursuing this thought the good genius of Sophia, or that 
which presided over the integrity of Mrs Honour, or perhaps 
mere chance, sent an accident in her way, which at once pre- 
served her fidelity, and even facilitated the intended business. 

Mrs Western’s maid claimed great superiority over Mrs 


172 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


.Honour on several accounts. First her birth was higher; for 
her great-grandmother by the mother’s side was a cousin, not 
far removed, to an Irish peer. Secondly, her wages were 
greater. And lastly, she had been at London, and had of con- 
sequence seen more of the world. She had always behaved, 
therefore, to Mrs Honour with that reserve, and had always 
exacted of her those marks of distinction, which every order of 
females preserves and requires in conversation with those of an 
inferior order. Now as Honour did not at all times agree with 
this doctrine, but would frequently break in upon the respect 
which the other demanded, Mrs Western’s maid was not at all 
pleased with her Company; indeed, she earnestly longed to re- 
turn home to the house of her mistress, 'where she domineered 
at will over all the other servants. She had been greatly, there- 
fore, disappointed in the morning, when Mrs Western had 
changed her mind on the very point of departure ; and had been 
in what is vulgarly called a glouting humour ever since. 

In this humour, which was none of the sweetest, she came 
into the room where Honour was debating with herself in the 
manner we have above related. Honour no sooner saw her, 
than she addressed her in the following obliging phrase : 

“Soh, madam, I find we are to have the pleasure of your 
company longer, which I was afraid the quarrel between my 
master and your lady would have robbed us of.” 

“I don’t know, madam,” answered the other, “what you 
mean by we and us. I assure you I do not look on any of the 
servants in this house to be proper company for me. I am 
company, I hope, for their betters every day in the week. I do 
not speak on your account, Mrs Honour ; for you are a civilized 
young woman; and when you have seen a little more of the 
world, I should not be ashamed to walk with you in St James’s 
Park.” 

“Hoity toity!” cries Honour, “madam is in her airs, I protest. 
Mrs Honour, forsooth! sure, madam, you might call me by my 
sir-name; for though my lady calls me Honour, I have a sir- 
name as well as other folks. Ashamed to walk with me, 
quotha! marry, as good as yourself, I hope.” 

“Since you make such a return to my civility,” said the other, 
“I must acquaint you, Mrs Honour, that you are not so good as 
me. In the country, indeed, one is obliged to take up with all 
kind of trumpery; but in town I visit none but the women of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


173 

women of quality. Indeed, Mrs Honour, there is some differ- 
ence, I hope, between you and me.” 

“I hope so too,” answered Honour: “there is some difference 
in our ages, and — I think in our persons.” Upon speaking which 
last 'words, she strutted by Mrs Western’s maid with the most 
provoking air of contempt ; turning up her nose, tossing her head, 
and violently brushing the hoop of her competitor with her 
own. 

The other lady put on one of her most malicious sneers, and 
said, “Creature! you are below my anger; and it is beneath me 
to give ill words to such an audacious saucy trollop; but, hussy, 
I must tell you, your breeding shows the meanness of your birth 
as well as of your education; and both very properly qualify 
you to be the mean serving-woman of a country girl.” 

“Don’t abuse my lady,” cries Honour: “I won’t take that of 
you; she’s as much better than yours as she is younger, and 
ten thousand times more handsomer.” 

Here ill luck, or rather good luck, sent Mrs Western to see 
her maid in tears, which began to flow plentifully at her ap- 
proach; and of which being asked the reason by her mistress, 
she presently acquainted her that her tears were occasioned by 
the rude treatment of that creature there — meaning Honour. 

“And, madam,” continued she, “I could have despised all she 
said to me; but she hath the audacity to affront your ladyship, 
and to call you ugly — Yes, madam, she called you ugly old cat 
to my face. I could not bear to hear your ladyship called 
ugly” 

“Why do you repeat her impudence so often?” said Mrs 
Western. And then turning to Mrs Honour, she asked her 
how she had the assurance to mention her name with disre- 
spect? 

“Disrespect, madam!” answered Honour; “I never mentioned 
your name at all: I said somebody was not as handsome as my 
mistress, and to be sure you know that as well as I.” 

“Hussy,” replied the lady, “I will make such a saucy trollop 
as yourself know that I am not a proper subject of your dis- 
course. And if my brother doth not discharge you this mo- 
ment, I will never sleep in his house again. I will find him out, 
and have you discharged this moment.” 

“Discharged!” cries Honour; “and suppose I am: there are 
more places in the world than one. Thank Heaven, good serv- 


174 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


ants need not want places ; and if you turn away all who do not 
think you handsome, you will want servants very soon; let me 
tell you that.” 

Mrs Western spoke, or rathered thundered, in answer, and 
then departed in search of her brother, with a countenance so 
full of rage, that she resembled one of the furies rather than a 
human creature. 

Logicians sometimes prove too much by an argument, and 
politicians often overreach themselves in a scheme. Thus had 
it like to have happened to Mrs Honour, who, instead of recov- 
ering the rest of her clothes, had like to have stopped even those 
she had on her back from escaping; for the squire no sooner 
heard of her having abused his sister, than he swore twenty 
oaths he would send her to Bridewell. 

But luckily the clerk had a qualification, which no clerk to a 
justice of the peace ought ever to be without, namely, some un- 
derstanding in the law of this realm. He therefore whispered 
in the ear of the justice that he would exceed his authority by 
committing the girl to Bridewell, as there had been no attempt 
to break the peace; “for I am afraid, sir,” says he, “you can- 
not legally commit any one to Bridewell only for ill-breeding.” 
So Mrs Western was, in the end, obliged to content herself 
with the satisfaction of having Honour turned away. 

Mr Western ordered her to be very expeditious in packing; 
for his sister declared she would not sleep another night under 
the same roof w T ith so impudent a slut. To work therefore she 
went, and that so earnestly, that everything was ready early in 
the evening; when, having received her wages, away packed 
bag and baggage, to the great satisfaction of every one, but of 
none more than of Sophia; who, having appointed a place of 
meeting, exactly at the dreadful and ghostly hour of twelve, 
began to prepare for her own departure. 

But first she was obliged to give two painful audiences, the 
one to her aunt, and the other to her father. In these Mrs 
Western herself began to talk to her in a more peremptory style 
than before: but her father treated her in so violent and out- 
rageous a manner, that he frightened her into an affected com- 
pliance with his will; which so highly pleased the good squire, 
that he changed his frowns into smiles, and his menaces into 
promises: he vowed his whole soul was wrapt in hers; that her 
consent (for so he construed the words, “You know, sir, I must 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


175 


not, nor can, refuse to obey any absolute command of yours”) 
had made him the happiest of mankind. He then gave her a 
large bank-bill to dispose of in any trinkets she pleased, and 
kissed and embraced her in the fondest manner, while tears of 
joy trickled from those eyes which a few moments before had 
darted fire and rage against the dear object of all his affection. 

The latter part of Mr Western’s behaviour had so strong an 
effect on the tender heart of Sophia, that it suggested a thought 
to her, which not all the sophistry of her politic aunt, nor all 
the menaces of her father, had ever once brought into her head. 
She reverenced her father so piously, and loved him so passion- 
ately, that she had scarce ever felt more pleasing sensations, 
than what arose from the share she frequently had of contribut- 
ing to his amusement, and sometimes, perhaps, to higher grati- 
fications; for he never could contain the delight of hearing her 
commended, which he had the satisfaction of hearing almost 
every day of her life. The idea, therefore, of the immense hap- 
piness she should convey to her father by her consent to this 
match, made a strong impression on her mind. Again, the ex- 
treme prety of such an act of obedience worked very forcibly, 
as she had a very deep sense of religion. Lastly, when she 
reflected how much she herself was to suffer, being indeed to 
become little less than a sacrifice, or a martyr, to filial love and 
duty, she felt an agreeable tickling in a certain little passion, 
which though it bears no immediate affinity either to religion or 
virtue, is often so kind as to lend great assistance in executing 
the purposes of both , 

Sophia was charmed with the contemplation of so heroic an 
action, and began to compliment herself with much premature 
flattery, when Cupid, who lay hid in her muff, suddenly crept 
out, and like Punchinello in a puppet-show, kicked all out be- 
fore him. In truth (for we scorn to deceive our reader, or to 
vindicate the character of our heroine by ascribing her actions to 
supernatural impulse) the thoughts of her beloved Jones, 
and some hopes (however distant) in which he was very partic- 
ularly concerned, immediately destroyed all which filial love, 
piety, and pride had, with their joint endeavours, been labouring 
to bring about. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Containing several matters, natural enough perhaps, but low . 

^JpHE reader will be pleased to remember, that we left Mr 
Jones, some chapters back, on his road to Bristol ; being 
determined to seek his fortune at sea, or rather, indeed, to fly 
away from his fortune on shore. 

It happened (a thing not very unusual), that the guide who 
undertook to conduct him on his way, was unluckily unac- 
quainted with the road; so that having missed his right track, 
being ashamed to ask information, he rambled about backwards 
and forwards till night came on, and it began to grow dark. 

Jones had not such implicit faith in his guide, but that on 
their arrival at a village he inquired of the first fellow he saw, 
whether they were in the road to Bristol. 

“Whence did you come?” cries the fellow. 

“No matter,” says Jones, a little hastily; “I want to know if 
this be the road to Bristol?” 

“The road to Bristol!” cries the fellow, scratching his head: 
“why, measter, I believe you will hardly get to Bristol this way 
to-night.” 

“Prithee, friend, then,” answered Jones, “do tell us which 
is the way.” 

“Why, measter,” cries the fellow, “you must be come out of 
your road the Lord knows whither; for thick way goeth to 
Glocester.” 

“Well, and which way goes to Bristol?” said Jones. 

“Why, you be going away from Bristol,” answered the fel- 
low. 

“Then,” said Jones, “we must go back again?” 

“Ay, you must,” said the fellow. 

“Well, and when we come back to the top of the hill, which 
way must we take?” 

“Why, you must keep the strait road.” 

“But I remember there are two roads, one to the right and the 
other to the left,” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


177 


“Why, you must keep the right-hand road, and then gu strait 
vorwards; only remember to turn vurst to your right, and then 
to your left again, and then to your right, and that brings you 
to the squire’s; and then you must keep strait vorwards, and 
turn to the left.” 

Another fellow now came up, and asked which way the gen- 
tlemen were going; of which being informed by Jones, he first 
scratched his head, and then leaning upon a pole he had in his 
hand, began to tell him, that he must keep the right-hand 
road for about a mile, or a mile and a half, or such a matter, and 
then he must turn short to the left, which would bring him 
round by Measter Jin Bearnes’s. 

“But which is Mr John Bearnes’s?” says Jones. 

“O Lord!” cries the fellow, “why, don’t you know Measter 
Jin Bearnes? Whence then did you come?” 

These two fellows had almost conquered the patience of Jones, 
when a plain well-looking man (who was indeed a Quaker) 
accosted him thus: “Friend, I perceive thou hast lost thy way; 
and if thou wilt take my advice, thou wilt not attempt to find 
it to-night. It is almost dark, and the road is difficult to hit; 
besides, there have been several robberies committed lately be- 
tween this and Bristol. Here is a very creditable good house just 
by, where thou may’st find good entertainment for thyself and 
thy cattle till morning.” Jones, after a little persuasion, agreed 
to stay in this place till the morning, and was conducted by his 
friend to the public-house, where presently arrived a number of 
gentlemen in red coats, who all rushed upon the landlord in as 
tumultuous a manner as if they intended to take his little castle 
by storm. 

While they were drinking, Mr Jones was engaged in conver- 
sation with the serjeant, who informed him that they were 
marching against the rebels, and expected to be commanded 
by the glorious Duke of Cumberland. By which the reader 
may perceive (a circumstance which we have not thought 
necessary to communicate before) that this was the very time 
when the late rebellion was at the highest; and indeed the 
banditti were now marched into England, intending, as it was 
thought, to fight the king’s forces, and to attempt pushing 
forward to the metropolis. 

Jones had some heroic ingredients in his composition, and 
was a hearty well-wisher to the glorious cause of liberty, and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


178 

of the Protestant religion. It is no wonder, therefore, that 
in circumstances which would have warranted a much more 
romantic and wild undertaking, it should occur to him to serve 
as a volunteer in this expedition. 

Our commanding officer had said all in his power to encour- 
age and promote this good disposition, from the first moment 
he had been acquainted with it. He now proclaimed the noble 
o resolution aloud, which was received with great pleasure by 
; the whole company, who all cried out, “God bless King George 
and your honour;” and then added, with many oaths, “We 
will stand by you both to the last drops of our blood.” 

All the next day the serjeant and the young soldier marched 
together; and the former, who was an arch fellow, told the 
latter many entertaining stories of his campaigns, though in 
reality he had never made any. Much mirth and festivity 
passed among the soldiers during their march. In which the 
many occurrences that had passed at their last quarters were 
remembered, and every one, with great freedom, made what 
jokes he pleased on his officers, some of which were of the coarser 
kind, and very near bordering on scandal. This brought to our 
hero’s mind the custom which he had read of among the Greeks 
and Romans, of indulging, on certain festivals and solemn 
occasions, the liberty to slaves, of using an uncontrolled freedom 
of speech towards their masters. 

Our little army, which consisted of two companies of foot, 
at last arrived at the place wffiere they were to halt that 
evening. The serjeant then acquainted his lieutenant, who was 
the commanding officer, that they had picked up a fellow in 
that day’s march, who would do well enough for the rear rank. 
At the first sight of Jones, the lieutenant could not help show- 
ing some surprize ; for besides that he was very well dressed, and 
was naturally genteel, he had a remarkable air of dignity in his 
look, which is rarely seen among the vulgar. 

“Sir,” said the lieutenant, “my serjeant informed me that 
you are desirous of enlisting in the company I have at present 
under my command ; if so, sir, we shall very gladly receive a 
gentleman who promises to do much honour to the company 
by bearing arms in it.” 

Jones answered, that he had not mentioned anything of 
enlisting himself; that he was most zealously attached to the 
glorious cause for which they were going to fight, and was 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


179 


very desirous of serving as a volunteer; concluding with some 
compliments to the lieutenant, and expressing the great satis- 
faction he should have in being under his command. 

The lieutenant returned his civility, commended his resolu- 
tion, shook him by the hand, and invited him to dine with him- 
self and the rest of the officers. These were a French lieuten- 
ant, who had been long enough out of France to forget his 
own language, but not long enough in England to learn ours, 
so that he really spoke no language at all, and could barely 
make himself understood on the most ordinary occasions. There 
were likewise two ensigns, both very young fellows; one of 
whom had been bred under an attorney, and the other was son 
to the wife of a nobleman’s butler. 

As soon as dinner was ended, Jones informed the company 
of the merriment which had passed among the soldiers upon 
their march; “and yet,” says he, “notwithstanding all their 
vociferation, I dare swear they will behave more like Grecians 
than Trojans when they come to the enemy.” 

“Grecians and Trojans!” says one of the ensigns, “who the 
devil are they? I have heard of all the troops in Europe, but 
never of any such as these.” 

“Don’t pretend to more ignorance than you have, Mr North- 
erton,” said the worthy lieutenant. “I suppose you have heard 
of the Greeks and Trojans, though perhaps you never read 
Pope’s Homer; who, I remember, now the gentleman mentions 
it, compares the march of the Trojans to the cackling of geese, 
and greatly commends the silence of the Grecians. And upon 
my honour there is great justice in the cadet’s observation.” 

“Begar, me remember dem ver well,” said the French lieu- 
tenant; “me ave read them at school in dans Madam Daciere, 
des Greek, des Trojan, dey fight for von woman — ouy, ouy, 
me ave read all dat.” 

“D — n Homo with all my heart,” says Northerton; “I have 
the marks of him on my back yet. There’s Thomas, of our 
regiment, always carries a Homo in his pocket; d — n me, if 
ever I come at it, if I don’t burn it. And there’s Corderius, 
another d — n’d son of a whore, that hath got me many a 
flogging.” 

“Then you have been at school, Mr Northerton?” said the 
lieutenant. 

“Ay, d — n me, have I,” answered he; “the devil take my 


i8o 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


father for sending me thither! The old put wanted to make a 
parson of me, but d — n me, thinks I to myself, I’ll nick you 
there, old cull; the devil a smack of your nonsense shall you 
ever get into me. There’s Jemmy Oliver, of our regiment, 
he narrowly escaped being a pimp too, and that would have 
been a thousand pities; for d — n me if he is not one of the 
prettiest fellows in the whole world ; but he went farther than 
I with the old cull, for Jemmy can neither write nor read.” 

“You give your friend a very good character,” said the ‘ 
lieutenant, “and a very deserved one, I dare say. But prithee, 
Northerton, leave off that foolish as well as wicked custom 
of swearing; for you are deceived, I promise you, if you think 
there is wit or politeness in it. I wish, too, you would take my 
advice, and desist from abusing the clergy. I leave to you to 
judge how inconsistent such behaviour is in men who are going 
to fight in defence of the Protestant religion.” 

Mr Adderly, which was the name of the other ensign, had 
sat hitherto kicking his heels and humming a tune, without 
seeming to listen to the discourse; he now answered, “ O, Mon - 
sieur, on ne Parle pas de la religion dans la guerre” 

“Well said, Jack,” cries Northerton: “if la religion was the 
only matter, the parsons should fight their own battles for me.” 

- “I don’t know, gentlemen,” said Jones, “what may be your 
opinion ; but I think no man can engage in a nobler cause than 
that of his religion. I love my king and country, I hope, as 
well as any man in it, yet the Protestant interest is no small 
motive to my becoming a volunteer in the cause.” 

Northerton now winked on Adderly, and whispered to him 
slily, “Smoke the prig, Adderly, smoke him.” Then turning to 
Jones, said to him, “I am very glad, sir, you have chosen 
our regiment to be a volunteer in; for if our parson should 
at any time take a cup too much, I find you can supply his place. 

I presume, sir, you have been at the university; may I crave 
the favour to know what college?” 

“Sir,” answered Jones, “so far from having been at the 
university, I have even had the advantage of yourself, for I 
was never at school.” 

“I presumed,” cries the ensign, “only upon the information 
of your great learning.” 

“Oh! sir,” answered Jones, “it is as possible for a man to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 181 

know something without having been at school, as it is to have 
; been at school and to know nothing.” 

“Well said, young volunteer,” cries the lieutenant. “Upon 
' my word, Northerton, you had better let him alone; for he will 
\ be too hard for you.” 

Northerton did not very well relish the sarcasm of Jones; 

I but he thought the provocation was scarce sufficient to justify 
I a blow, or a rascal, or scoundrel, which were the only repartees 
that suggested themselves. He was, therefore, silent at 
j present; but resolved to take the first opportunity of returning 
the jest by abuse. 

It now came to the turn of Mr Jones to give a toast, as it is 
called ; who could not refrain from mentioning his dear Sophia. 
But the lieutenant, who was the toast-master, was not con- 
tented with Sophia only. He said, he must have her sir-name j 
upon which Jones hesitated a little, and presently after named 
Miss Sophia Western. Ensign Northerton declared he would 
not drink her health in the same round with his own toast, 
unless somebody would vouch for her. 

“I knew one Sophy Western,” says he, “that was lain with 
by half the young fellows at Bath ; and perhaps this is the same 
woman.” 

Jones very solemnly assured him of the contrary; asserting 
that the young lady he named was one of great fashion and 
fortune. 

“Ay, ay,” says the ensign, “and so she is: d — n me, it is the 
same woman; and I’ll hold half a dozen of Burgundy, Tom 
French of our regiment brings her into company with us at any 
tavern in Bridges-street.” He then proceeded to describe her 
person exactly (for he had seen her with her aunt), and con- 
cluded with saying, that her father had a great estate in 
Somersetshire. 

The tenderness of lovers can ill brook the least jesting with 
the names of their mistresses. So, turning to the ensign with 
a stern aspect, Jones said, “Pray, sir, choose some other subject 
for your wit; for I promise you I will bear no jesting with 
this lady’s character.” 

“Jesting!” cries the other, “d— n me if ever I was more in 
earnest in my life. Tom French of our regiment had both her 
and her aunt at Bath.” 


182 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Then I must tell you in earnest,” cries Jones, “that you are 
one of the most impudent rascals upon earth.” 

He had no sooner spoken these words, than the ensign, 
together with a volley of curses, discharged a bottle full at the 
head of Jones, which hitting him a little above the right temple, 
brought him instantly to the ground. 

The conqueror perceiving the enemy to lie motionless before 
him, and blood beginning to flow pretty plentifully from his 
wound, began now to think of quitting the field of battle, where 
no more honour was to be gotten ; but the lieutenant interposed, 
by stepping before the door, and thus cut off his retreat. 

Northerton was very importunate with the lieutenant for his 
liberty; urging the ill consequences of his stay, asking him, 
what he could have done less? 

“Zounds!” says he, “I was but in jest with the fellow. I 
never heard any harm of Miss Western in my life.” 

“Have not you?” said the lieutenant; “then you richly 
deserve to be hanged, as well for making such jests, as for using 
such a weapon : you are my prisoner, sir ; nor shall you stir from 
hence till a proper guard comes to secure you.” 

When the good lieutenant applied himself to the door, he 
applied himself likewise to the bell; and the drawer immediate- 
ly attending, he dispatched him for a file of musqueteers and a 
surgeon. These commands, together with the drawer’s report 
of what he had himself seen, not only produced the soldiers, but 
presently drew up the landlord of the house, his wife, and ser- 
vants, and, indeed, every one else who happened at that time to 
be in the inn. 

The first thing done was securing the body of Northerton, 
who being delivered into the custody of six men with a corporal 
at their head, was by them conducted from a place which he 
was very willing to leave, but it was unluckily to a place 
whither he w~as very unwilling to go. 

The company which now arrived suspended their curiosity 
concerning the person of the ensign, till they should see him 
hereafter in a more engaging attitude. At present, their whole 
concern and attention were employed about the bloody object 
on the floor; which being placed upright in a chair, soon began 
to discover some symptoms of life and motion. These were 
no sooner perceived by the company (for Jones was at first 
generally concluded to be dead) than they all fell at once to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


183 

prescribing for him (for as none of the physical order was 
present, every one there took that office upon him). 

Bleeding was the unanimous voice of the whole room; but 
unluckily there was no operator at hand ; every one then cried, 

Call the barber; but none stirred a step. Several cordials 
was likewise prescribed in the same ineffective manner ; till the 
landlord ordered up a tankard of strong beer, with a toast, 
which he said was the best cordial in England. 

The person principally assistant on this occasion, indeed the 
only one who did any service, or seemed likely to do any, was 
the landlady: she cut off some of her hair, and applied it to the 
wound to stop the blood ; she fell to chafing the youth’s temples 
with her hand; and having exprest great contempt for her 
husband’s prescription of beer, she despatched one of her maids 
to her own closet for a bottle of brandy, of which, as soon as 
it was brought, she prevailed on Jones, who was just returned to 
his senses, to drink a very large and plentiful draught. 

Soon afterwards arrived the surgeon, who having viewed 
the wound, having shaken his head, and blamed everything 
which was done, ordered his patient instantly to bed. 

In the morning, our commander sent a message to Mr Jones, 
that if a visit would not be troublesome, he would wait on him. 
This civility was very kindly and thankfully received by Jones, 
and the lieutenant accordingly went up to his room, where he 
found the wounded man much better than he expected; nay, 
Jones assured his friend, that if he had not received express 
orders to the contrary from the surgeon, he should have got 
up long ago; for he appeared to himself to be as well as ever, 
and felt no other inconvenience from his wound but an extreme 
soreness on that side of his head. 

The lieutenant expressed great pleasure at his friend’s im- 
provement, and acquainted him at the same time with the 
escape of ensign Northerton, who had succeeded in bribing the 
sentry. As they w T ere talking, the general beats sounded, and 
the lieutenant was forced to hurry away, but not before wish- 
ing our hero a quick recovery. 

When Jones had taken leave of his friend, he endeavoured 
to close his eyes, but all in vain ; his spirits were too lively and 
wakeful to be lulled to sleep. So having for a time amused, 
or rather tormented, himself with the thoughts of his Sophia, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


184 

he called for some tea; upon which occasion my landlady her- 
self vouchsafed to pay him a visit. 

As the lieutenant had assured her that her guest was cer- 
tainly some young gentleman of fashion, she now determined 
to show him all the respect in her power; for, to speak truly, 
this was one of those houses where gentlemen, to use the lan- 
guage of advertisements, meet with civil treatment for their 
money. She had no sooner begun to make his tea, than she 
likewise began to discourse. 

“La! sir,” said she, “I think it is a great pity 
that such a pretty young gentleman should undervalue him- 
self so, as to go about with these soldier fellows. 
They call themselves gentlemen, I warrant you; but, as my 
first husband used to say, they should remember it is we that 
pay them. And here one of ’um has used you in so barbarous 
a manner. I hope, however, you will learn more wit for the 
future, and return back to your friends; I warrant they are 
all miserable for your loss ; and if they was but to know what 
had happened — La my seeming! I would not for the world 
they should. Come, come, we know very well what all the 
matter is; but if one won’t, another will; so pretty a gentle- 
man need never want a lady. I am sure, if I was you, I 
would see the finest she that ever wore a head hanged, before 
I would go for a soldier for her. — Nay, don’t blush so” (for 
indeed he did to a violent degree). “Why, you thought, sir, 
I knew nothing of the matter, I warrant you, about Madam 
Sophia.” 

“How,” says Jones, starting up, “do you know my Sophia?” 

“Do I! ay marry,” cries the landlady; “many’s the time 
hath she lain in this house.” 

“With her aunt, I suppose,” says Jones. 

“Why, there it is now,” cries the landlady. “Ay, ay, ay, 
I know the old lady very well. And a sweet young creature is 
Madam Sophia, that’s the truth on’t.” 

“A sweet creature,” cries Jones; “O heavens! And could 
I ever have imagined that you had known my Sophia !” 

“I wish,” says the landlady, “you knew half so much of her. 
What would you have given to have sat by her bed-side? 
What a delicious neck she hath! Her lovely limbs have 
stretched themselves in that very bed you now lie in.” 

“Here!” cries Jones: “hath Sophia ever laid here?” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


185 

“Ay, ay, here; there, in that very bed,” says the landlady; 
“where I wish you had her this moment; and she may wish 
so too for anything I know to the contrary, for she hath 
mentioned your name to me.” 

“Ha!” cries he; “did she ever mention her poor Jones? You 
flatter me now: I can never believe so much.” 

“Why, then,” answered she, “as I hope to be saved, and may 
the devil fetch me if I speak a syllable more than the truth, 
I have heard her mention Mr Jones; but in a civil and modest 
way, I confess; yet I could perceive she thought a great deal 
more than she said.” 

“O my dear woman!” cries Jones, “her thoughts of me I 
shall never be worthy of.” 

“Why, look you there now,” says the landlady; “I told her 
you was a constant lovier.” 

“But pray, madam, tell me when or where you knew any- 
thing of me; for I never was here before, nor do I remember 
ever to have seen you.” 

“Nor is it possible you should,” answered she; “for you 
was a little thing when I had you in my lap at the squire’s.” 

“How, the squire’s?” says Jones: “what, do you know that 
great and good Mr Allworthy then?” 

“Yes, marry, do I,” says she: “who in the country doth 
not?” 

“The fame of his goodness indeed,” answered Jones, “must 
have extended farther than this. I, who was raised by him 
to such a height; taken in, as you must well know, a poor 
base-born child, adopted by him, and treated as his own son, 
dared by my follies to disoblige him, to draw his vengeance 
upon me. Yes, I deserve it all; for I will never be so un- 
grateful as ever to think he hath done an act of injustice by 
me. No, I deserve to be turned out of doors, as I am. And 
now, madam,” says he, “I believe you will not blame me for 
turning soldier, especially with such a fortune as this in my 
pocket.” At which words he shook a purse, which had but 
very little in it, and which still appeared to the landlady to have 
less. 

My good landlady was (according to vulgar phrase) struck 
all of a heap by this relation. She answered coldly, that to be 
sure people were the best judges what was most proper for their 
circumstances. “But hark,” says she, “I think I hear some- 


i86 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


body call. Coming! coming! the devil’s in all our volk; 
nobody hath any ears. I must go down-stairs; if you want 
any more breakfast the maid will come up. Coming!” 

At which words, without taking any leave, she flung out of 
the room; for the lower sort of people are very tenacious of 
respect; and though they are contented to give this gratis to 
persons of quality, yet they never confer it on those of their 
own order without taking care to be well paid for their pains. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


In which is introduced one of the pleasantest barbers that 
was ever recorded in history. 

p>EFORE we proceed any farther, that the reader may not be 
mistaken in imagining the landlady knew more than she 
did, nor surprized that she knew so much, it may be necessary 
j to inform him that the lieutenant had acquainted her that the 
name of Sophia had been the occasion of the quarrel; and as 
for the rest of her knowledge, the sagacious reader will observe 
how she came by it in the preceding scene. 

She ^as no sooner gone than Jones, instead of animadvert- 
ing on her behaviour, reflected that he was in the same bed 
which he was informed had held his dear Sophia. This 
occasioned a thousand fond and tender thoughts, which we 
would dwell longer upon, did we not consider that such kind 
of lovers will make a very inconsiderable part of our readers. 
In this situation the surgeon found him, when he came to dress 
his wound. The doctor perceiving, upon examination, that his 
pulse was disordered, and hearing that he had not slept, de- 
clared that he was in great danger; for he apprehended a fever 
was coming on, which he would have prevented by bleeding, 
but Jones would not submit, declaring he would lose no more 
blood; “and, doctor,” says he, “if you will be so kind only to 
dress my head, I have no doubt of being well in a day or two.” 

“I wish,” answered the surgeon, “I could assure your being 
well in a month or two. Well, indeed ! No, no, people are not 
so soon well of such contusions ; but, sir, I am not at this time 
of day to be instructed in my operations by a patient, and I 
insist on making a revulsion before I dress you.” 

Jones persisted obstinately in his refusal, and ‘the doctor at 
last yielded ; telling him at the same time that he would not 
be answerable for the ill consequence, and hoped he would 
do him the justice to acknowledge that he had given him a 
contrary advice; which the patient promised he would. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


The doctor retired into the kitchen, where, addressing him- 
self to the landlady, he complained bitterly of the undutiful 
behaviour of his patient, who would not be blooded, though 
he was in a fever. 

“It is an eating fever then,” says the landlady; “for he hath 
devoured two swinging buttered toasts this morning for break- 
fast.” 

“Very likely,” says the doctor: “I have known people eat in 
a fever; and it is very easily accounted for; because the acidity 
occasioned by the febrile matter may stimulate the nerves of 
the diaphragm, and thereby occasion a craving which will not 
be easily distinguishable from a natural appetite; but the ali- 
ment will not be concreted, nor assimilated into chyle, and so 
will corrode the vascular orifices, and thus will aggravate the 
febrific symptoms. Indeed, I think the gentleman in a very 
dangerous way, and, if he is not blooded, I am afraid will die.” 

“Every man must die some time or other,” answered the 
good woman; “it is no business of mine. I hope, doctor, you 
would not have me hold him while you bleed him. But, 
hark’ee, a word in your ear; I would advise you, before you 
proceed too far, to take care who is to be your paymaster.” 

“Paymaster!” said the doctor, staring; “why, I’ve a gentle- 
man under my hands, have I not?” 

“I imagined so as well as you,” said the landlady; “but, as 
my first husband used to say, everything is not what it looks 
to be. He is an arrant scrub, I assure you.” 

“And have I suffered such a fellow as this,” cries the doctor, 
in a passion, “to instruct me ? I will see now whether he will 
be blooded or no.” 

He then immediately went upstairs, and flinging open the 
door of the chamber with much violence, awaked poor Jones 
from a very sound nap, into which he was fallen, and, what 
was still worse, from a delicious dream concerning Sophia. 

“Will you be blooded or no?” cries the doctor, in a rage. 

“I have told you my resolution already,” answered Jones, 
“and I wish with all my heart you had taken my answer; for 
you have awaked me out of the sweetest sleep which I ever 
had in my life.” 

“Ay, ay,” cries the doctor; “many a man hath dozed away 
his life. Sleep is not always good, no more than food; but 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 189 

: remember, I demand of you for the last time, will you be 
blooded?” 

“I answer you for the last time,” said Jones, “I will not.” 

, “Then I wash my hands of you,” cries the doctor; “and I 
desire you to pay me for the trouble I have had already. Two 
journeys at 5r. each, two dressings at 5r. more, and half a 
r crown for phlebotomy.” 

“I hope,” said Jones, “you don’t intend to leave me in this 
condition.” 

“Indeed but I shall,” said the other. 

“Then,” said Jones, “you have used me rascally, and I will 
not pay you a farthing.” 

“Very well,” cries the doctor; “the first loss is the best. What 
a pox did my landlady mean by sending for me to such vaga- 
bonds!” 

At which words he flung out of the room, and his patient 
turning himself about soon recovered his sleep; but his dream 
was unfortunately gone. 

The clock had struck five when Jones awaked from a nap 
of seven hours, so much refreshed, and in such perfect health 
and spirits, that he resolved to get up and dress himself; for 
which purpose he unlocked his portmanteau, and took out clean 
linen, and a suit of clothes; but first he slipt on a frock, and 
went down into the kitchen to bespeak something that might 
pacify certain tumults he found rising within his stomach. 

Meeting the landlady, he accosted her with great civility, 
and asked, what he could have for dinner? 

“For dinner!” says she; “it is an odd time of day to think 
about dinner. There is nothing drest in the house, and the 
fire is almost out.” 

“Well, but,” says he, “I must have something to eat, and it 
is almost indifferent to me what; for, to tell you the truth, 

I was never more hungry in my life.” 

“Then,” says she, “I believe there is a piece of cold buttock 
and carrot, which will fit you.” 

“Nothing better,” answered Jones; “but I should be obliged 
to you, if you would let it be fried.” To which the landlady 
consented, and said, smiling, she was glad to see him so well 
recovered; for the sweetness of our hero’s temper was almost 
irresistible. 

Jones now returned in order to dress himself, while his din- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


190 

ner was preparing, and was, according to his orders, attended 
by the barber. 

This barber, who went by the name of Little Benjamin, was 
a fellow of great oddity and humour, which had frequently 
let him into small inconveniencies, such as slaps in the face, 
kicks in the breech, broken bones, &c. For every one doth 
not understand a jest; and those who do are often displeased 
with being themselves the subjects of it. This vice was, how- 
ever, incurable in him; and though he had often smarted for 
it, yet if ever he conceived a joke, he was certain to be delivered 
of it, without the least respect of persons, time, or place. 

He had a great many other particularities in his character, 
which I shall not mention, as the reader will himself very easily 
perceive them, on his farther acquaintance with this extraor- 
dinary person. 

Jones being impatient to be drest, for a reason which may 
be easily imagined, thought the shaver was very tedious in pre- 
paring his suds, and begged him to make haste; to which the 
other answered with much gravity, for he never discomposed 
his muscles on any account, “Festina lente , is a proverb which I 
learned long before I ever touched a razor.” 

“I find, friend, you are a scholar,” replied Jones. 

“A poor one,” said the barber, “ non omnia possumus omnes. 
Yet am I too much addicted to the study of philosophy; hinc 
ill & lacrymee, sir; that’s my misfortune. Too much learning 
hath been my ruin.” 

“Indeed,” says Jones, “I confess, friend, you have more 
learning than generally belongs to your trade; but I can’t see 
how it can have injured you.” 

“Alas! sir,” answered the shaver, “my father disinherited 
me for it. He was a dancing-master; and because I could 
read before I could dance, he took an aversion to me, and left 
every farthing among his other children. — Will you please to 
have your temples — O la ! I ask your pardon, I fancy there is 
hiatus in manuscriptis. I heard you was going to the wars; 
but I find it was a mistake.” 

“Why do you conclude so?” says Jones. 

“Sure, sir,” answered the barber, “you are too wise a man 
to carry a broken head thither; for that would be carrying 
coals to Newcastle.” 

“Upon my word,” cries Jones, “thou art a very odd fellow, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


191 

and I like thy humour extremely; I shall be very glad if thou 
wilt come to me after dinner, and drink a glass with me; I 
long to be better acquainted with thee.” 

“O dear sir!” said the barber, “I can do you twenty times 
as great a favour, if you will accept of it.” 

“What is that, my friend?” cries Jones. 

“Why, I will drink a bottle with you if you please; for I 
dearly love good-nature ; and as you have found me out to be a 
comical fellow, so I have no skill in physiognomy, if you are not 
one of the best-natured gentlemen in the universe.” 

When Jones returned to the kitchen, his cloth was not yet 
laid; nor indeed was there any occasion it should, his dinner 
remaining in statu quo , as did the fire which was to dress it. 
This disappointment might have put many a philosophical temper 
into a passion; but it had no such effect on Jones. He only 
gave the landlady a gentle rebuke, saying, since it was so diffi- 
cult to get it heated he would eat the beef cold. But now the 
good woman, whether moved by compassion, or by shame, or by 
whatever other motive, I cannot tell, first gave her servants a 
round scold for disobeying the orders which she had never given, 
and then bidding the drawer lay a napkin in the Sun, she set 
about the matter in good earnest, and soon accomplished it. 

This Sun, into which Jones was now conducted, was truly 
named, as, lucus a non lucendo, for it was an apartment into 
which the sun had scarce ever looked. It was indeed the worst 
room in the house. However, he was now too hungry to find 
any fault; but having once satisfied his appetite, he ordered the 
drawer to carry a bottle of wine into a better room, and ex- 
pressed some resentment at having been shown into a dungeon. 

The drawer having obeyed his commands, he was, after some 
time, attended by the barber, who would not indeed have suffered 
him to wait so long for his company had he not been listening 
in the kitchen to the landlady, who was entertaining a circle 
that she had gathered round her with the history of poor Jones, 
part of which she had extracted from his own lips, and the 
other part was her own ingenious composition ; for she said 
he was a poor parish boy, taken into the house of Squire All- 
worthy, where he was bred up as an apprentice, and now turned 
out of doors for his misdeeds, particularly for making love to 
his young mistress, and probably for robbing the house; for how 
else should he come by the little money he had? 


192 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“A servant of Squire Allworthy !” said the barber; “what’s 
his name?” 

“Why he told me his name was Jones,” says she : “perhaps 
he goes by a wrong name. Nay, and he told me, too, that the 
squire had maintained him as his own son, thof he had quar- 
relled with him now.” 

“And if his name be Jones, he told you the truth,” said the 
barber; “for I have relations who live in that country; nay, 
and some people say he is his son.” 

“Why doth he not go by the name of his father?” 

“I can’t tell that,” said the barber; “ many people’s sons 
don’t go by the name of their father.” 

“Nay,” said the landlady, “if I thought he was a gentleman’s 
son, thof he was a bye-blow, I should behave to him in another 
guess manner; for many of these bye-blows come to be great 
men, and, as my first husband used to say, never affront any 
customer that’s a gentleman.” 

This conversation passed partly while Jones was at dinner 
in his dungeon, and partly while he was expecting the barber 
in the parlour. And, as soon as it was ended, Mr Benjamin, 
as we have said, attended him, and was very kindly desired to 
sit down. Jones then filling out a glass of wine, drank his 
health by the appellation of doctissime tonsorum. 

“Ago tibi gratiaSj dornine ” said the barber; and then looking 
very steadfastly at Jones, he said, with great gravity, and with 
a seeming surprize, as if he had recollected a face he had seen 
before, “Sir, may I crave the favour to know if your name is 
not Jones?” To which the other answered, that it was. “Proh 
deum atque hominum fidem!” says the barber; “how strangely 
things come to pass! Mr Jones, I am your most obedient ser- 
vant. I find you do not know me, which indeed is no wonder, 
since you never saw me but once, and then you was very young. 
Pray, sir, how doth the good Squire Allworthy? how doth ille 
optimus omnium patronusT’ 

“I find,” said Jones, “you do indeed know me; but I have not 
the like happiness of recollecting you.” 

“I do not wonder at that,” cries Benjamin; “but I am sur- 
prized I did not know you sooner, for you are not in the least 
altered. And pray, sir, may I, without offence, enquire whither 
you are travelling this way?” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


193 


“Fill the glass, Mr Barber,” said Jones, “and ask no more 
questions.” 

Nay, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I would not be trouble- 
some; and I hope you don’t think me a man of an impertinent 
curiosity, for that is a vice which nobody can lay to my charge; 
but I ask pardon ; for when a gentleman of your figure travels 
without his servants, we may suppose him to be, as we say, in 
casu incognito , and perhaps I ought not to have mentioned your 
name.” 

“I own,” says Jones, “I did not expect to have been so well 
known in this country as I find I am ; yet, for particular reasons, 
I shall be obliged to you if you will not mention my name to 
any other person till I am gone from hence.” 

te Pauca verba " answered the barber; “and I wish no other 
here knew you but myself; for some people have tongues; but 
I promise you I can keep a secret. My enemies will allow me 
that virtue.” 

“And yet that is not the characteristic of your profession, Mr 
Barber,” answered Jones. 

“Alas! sir,” replied Benjamin, “Non si male nunc et olim sic 
erit. I was not born nor bred a barber, I assure you. I have 
spent most of my time among gentlemen, and though I say it, 
I understand something of gentility. And if you had thought 
me as worthy of your confidence as you have some other people, 
I should have shown you I could have kept a secret better. I 
should not have degraded your name in a public kitchen; for 
indeed, sir, some people have not used you well; for besides 
making a public proclamation of what you told them of a quar- 
rel between yourself and Squire Allworthy, they added lies of 
their own, things which I knew to be lies. You will pardon 
me, therefore; for it was real concern at what I heard made 
me ask many questions; for I have no impertinent curiosity 
about me: but I love good-nature and thence became amoris 
abundantia erga te.” 

Every profession of friendship easily gains credit with the 
miserable; it is no wonder therefore, if Jones, who, besides his 
being miserable, was extremely open-hearted, very readily be- 
lieved all the professions of Benjamin, and related the whole 
history, and ended with his resolution to go to sea, till the re- 
bellion in the North had made him change his purpose, and 
had brought him to the place where he then was. 


194 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Though the barber had drank down this story with greedy 
ears, he was not yet satisfied. There was a circumstance be- 
hind which his curiosity, cold as it was, most eagerly longed 
for. Jones had mentioned the fact of his amour, and of his 
being the rival of Blifil, but had cautiously concealed the name 
of the young lady. The barber, therefore, after some hesita- 
tion, and many hums and hahs, at last begged leave to crave 
the name of the lady, who appeared to be the principal cause 
of all this mischief. 

Jones paused a moment, and then said, “Since I have trusted 
you with so much, and since, I am afraid, her name is become 
too publick already on this occasion, I will not conceal it from 
you. Her name is Sophia Western.” 

“Proh deum atque hominum fidern! Squire Western hath a 
daughter grown a woman !” 

“Ay, and such a woman,” cries Jones, “that the world can- 
not match. No eye ever saw anything so beautiful ; but that is 
her least excellence. Such sense! such goodness! Oh, I could 
praise her for ever, and yet should omit half her virtues!” 

“Mr Western a daughter grown up!” cries the barber: “I 
remember the father a boy; well, Tempus edax rerum.” 

The wine being now at an end, the barber pressed very 
eagerly to be his bottle ; but Jones absolutely refused, and after 
some further conversation, the barber w T ent home and Jones re- 
tired to his chamber. 

In the morning Jones grew a little uneasy at the desertion 
of his surgeon, as he apprehended some inconvenience, or even 
danger, might attend the not dressing his wound ; he enquired 
therefore of the drawer, what other surgeons were to be met 
with in that neighbourhood. The drawer told him, there was 
one not far off; but he had know him often refuse to be con- 
cerned after another had been sent for before him. 

“But, sir,” says he, “if you will take my advice, there is not 
a man in the kingdom can do your business better than the 
barber who was with you last night. We look upon him to be 
one of the ablest men at a cut in all this neighbourhood. For 
though he hath not been here above three months, he hath done 
several great cures.” 

The drawer was presently dispatched for Little Benjamin, 
who being acquainted in what capacity he was wanted, pre- 
pared himself accordingly, and attended; but with so different 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


195 

an air and aspect from that which he wore when his basin 
was under his arm, that he could scarce be known to be the 
! same person. 

So, tonsor, says Jones, “I find you have more trades than 
i one; how came you not to inform me of this last night?” 

“A surgeon,” answered Benjamin, with great gravity, “is a 
profession, not a trade. The reason why I did not acquaint 
you last night that I professed this art, was, that I then con- 
cluded you was under the hands of another gentleman, and I 
j never love to interfere with my brethren in their business. Ars 
; omnibus communis. But now, sir, if you please, I will inspect 
; your head, and when I see into your skull, I will give my opinion 
I of your case.” 

Jones had no great faith in this new professor; however, he 
suffered him to open the bandage and to look at his wound; 

| which as soon as he had done, Benjamin began to groan and 
shake his head violently. Upon which Jones, in a peevish 
manner, bid him not play the fool, but tell him in what con- 
dition he found him. 

“Shall I answer you as a surgeon, or a friend?” said Ben- 
jamin. 

“As a friend, and seriously,” said Jones. 

“Why then, upon my soul,” cries Benjamin, “it would re- 
quire a great deal of art to keep you from being well after a 
very few dressings ; and if you will suffer me to apply some salve 
of mine, I will answer for the success.” Jones gave his con- 
sent, and the plaister was applied accordingly. 

“There, sir,” cries Benjamin: “now I will, if you please, 
resume my former self; but a man is obliged to keep up some 
dignity in his countenance whilst he is performing these oper- 
ations, or the world will not submit to be handled by him. You 
can’t imagine, sir, of how much consequence a grave aspect 
is to a grave character. A barber may make you laugh, but a 
surgeon ought rather to make you cry.” 

“Mr Barber, or Mr Surgeon, or Mr Barber-surgeon,” said 
Jones, “you certainly are one of the oddest, most comical fel- 
lows I ever met with, and must have something very surpriz- 
ing in your story, which you must confess I have a right to 
hear.” 

“I do confess it,” answered Benjamin, “and will very readily 
acquaint you with it. But first I will fasten the door, that 


196 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


none may interrupt us.” He did so, and then advancing with a 
solemn air to Jones, said: “I must begin by telling you, sir, 
that you yourself have been the greatest enemy I ever had.” 

Jones was a little startled at this sudden declaration. “I 
your enemy, sir!” says he, with much amazement, and some 
sternness in his look. 

“Nay, be not angry,” said Benjamin, “for I promise you I 
am not. You are perfectly innocent of having intended me 
any wrong; for you was then an infant: but I shall, I believe, 
unriddle all this the moment I mention my name. Did you 
never hear, sir, of one Partridge, who had the honour of being 
reputed your father, and the misfortune of being ruined by 
that honour?” 

“I have, indeed, heard of that Partridge,” says Jones, “and 
have always believed myself to be his son.” 

“Well, sir,” answered Benjamin, “I am that Partridge; but 
I here absolve you from all filial duty, for I do assure you, 
you are no son of mine.” 

“How!” replied Jones, “and is it possible that a false sus- 
picion should have drawn all the ill consequences upon you, 
with which I am too well acquainted ?” 

“It is possible,” cries Benjamin, “for it is so; but though it 
is natural enough for men to hate even the innocent causes 
of their sufferings, yet I am of a different temper. I have 
loved you ever since I heard of your behaviour to Black George, 
and I am convinced, from this extraordinary meeting, that you 
are born to make me amends for all I have suffered on that 
account. Besides, I dreamt, the night before I saw you, that 
I stumbled over a stool without hurting myself; which plainly 
showed me something good was towards me: and last night 
I dreamt again, that I rode behind you on a milk-white mare, 
which is a very excellent dream, and betokens much good for- 
tune, which I am resolved to pursue unless you have the cruelty 
to deny me.” 

“I should be very glad, Mr Partridge,” answered Jones, “to 
have it in my power to make you amends for your sufferings 
on my account, though at present I see no likelihood of it ; how- 
ever, I assure you I will deny you nothing which is in my 
power to grant/’ 

“It is in your power sure enough,” replied Benjamin; “for I 
desire nothing more than leave to attend you in this expedi- 


197 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

tion. Nay, I have so entirely set my heart upon it, that if you 
should refuse me, you will kill both a barber and a surgeon 
in one breath.” 

Jones answered, smiling, that he should be very sorry to be 
the occasion of so such mischief to the public. He then ad- 
vanced many prudential reasons, in order to dissuade Benjamin 
(whom we shall hereafter call Partridge) from his purpose; 
but all were in vain. Partridge relied strongly on his dream 
of the milk-white mare. 

“Besides, sir,“ says he, “I promise you I have as good an 
inclination to the cause as any man can possibly have; and go 
I will, whether you admit me to go in your company or not.” 

Jones, who was as much pleased with Partridge as Partridge 
could be with him, and who had not consulted his own in- 
clination but the good of the other in desiring him to stay be- 
hind, when he found his friend so resolute, at last gave his con- 
sent; but then recollecting himself, he said, “Perhaps, Mr Part- 
ridge, you think I shall be able to support you, but I really 
am not;” and then taking out his purse, he told out nine 
guineas, which he declared were his whole fortune. 

Patridge answered, that his dependence was only on his 
future favour; for he was thoroughly convinced he would 
shortly have enough in his power. 

“At present, sir,” said he, “I believe I am rather the richer 
man of the two; but all I have is at your service, and at your 
disposal. I insist upon your taking the whole, and I beg only to 
attend you in the quality of your servant; Nil desperandum 
est Teucro duce et auspice Teucro but to this generous pro- 
posal concerning the money, Jones would by no means submit. 

It was resolved to set out the next morning, when a diffi- 
culty arose concerning the bagg .ge; for the portmanteau of Mr 
Jones was too large to be carried without a horse. 

“If I may presume to give my advice,” says Partridge, “this 
portmanteau, with everything in it, except a few shirts, should 
be left behind. Those I shall be easily able to carry for you, 
and the rest of your clothes will remain very safe locked up in 
my house.” 

This method was no sooner proposed than agreed to; and 
then the barber departed, in order to prepare everything for 
his intended expedition. 

Though Partridge was one of the most superstitious of men, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


198 

he would hardly perhaps have desired to accompany Jones on 
his expedition merely from the omens of the joint-stool and 
white mare, if his prospect had been no better than to have 
shared the plunder gained in the field of battle. In fact, when 
Partridge came to ruminate on the relation he had heard from 
Jones, he could not reconcile to himself that Mr Allworthy 
should turn his son (for so he most firmly believed him to be) 
out of doors, for any reason which he had heard assigned. 
He concluded, therefore, that the whole was a fiction, and that 
Jones, of whom he had often from his correspondents heard 
the wildest character, had in reality run' away from his 
father. It came into his head, therefore, that if he could pre- 
vail with the young gentleman to return back to his father, 
he should by that means render a service to Allworthy, which 
would obliterate all his former anger; nay, indeed, he con- 
ceived that very anger was counterfeited, and that Allworthy 
had sacrificed him to his own reputation. 

Early in the morning, according to his agreement, Partridge 
appeared at the bedside of Jones, ready equipped for the jour- 
ney, and the two travelled on to Gloucester without meeting 
any adventure worth relating. 

Being arrived here, they chose for their house of entertain- 
ment the sign of the Bell, an excellent house indeed, and which 
I do most seriously recommend to every reader who shall visit 
this ancient city. The master of it is brother to the great 
preacher Whitefield ; but is absolutely untainted with the per- 
nicious principles of Methodism, or of any other heretical sect. 
His wife is a very friendly good-natured woman; and so in- 
dustrious to oblige, that the guests must be of a very morose 
disposition who are not extremely well satisfied in her house. 

Mrs Whitefield happened to be in the yard when Jones and 
his attendant marched in. Her sagacity soon discovered in 
the air of our hero something which distinguished him from 
the vulgar. She ordered her servants, therefore, immediately 
to show him into a room, and presently afterwards invited 
him to dinner with herself; which invitation he very thank- 
fully accepted ; for indeed much less agreeable company than 
that of Mrs Whitefield, and a much worse entertainment than 
she had provided, would have been welcome after so long 
fasting and so long a walk. 

Besides Mr Jones and the good governess of the mansion, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. lgg 

there sat down at table an attorney of Salisbury, indeed the 
very same who had brought the news of Mrs Blifil’s death to 
[ Mr Allworthy, and whose name, which I think we did not 
before mention, was Dowling: there was likewise present 
another person, who styled himself a lawyer, and who lived 
< somewhere near Linlinch, in Somersetshire. 

During the time of dinner, the Somersetshire lawyer recol- 
rr lected the face of Jones, which he had seen at Mr Allworthy’s; 
for he had often visited in that gentleman’s kitchen. As the 
conversation of fellows of this kind is of all others the most 
detestable to men of any sense, the cloth was no sooner removed 
than Mr Jones withdrew, and a little barbarously left poor 
Mrs Whitefield to do a penance, which I have often heard 
Mr Timothy Harris, and other publicans of good taste, lament, 
as the severest lot annexed to their calling, namely, that of 
being obliged to keep company with their guests. 

Jones had no sooner quitted the room, than the petty-fogger, 
in a whispering tone, asked Mrs Whitefield if she knew who 
that fine spark was? She answered, she had never seen the 
gentleman before. 

“The gentleman, indeed!” replied the petty-fogger; “a 
pretty gentleman, truly! Why, he’s the bastard of a fellow 
who was hanged for horse-stealing. He was dropt at Squire 
Allworthy’s door, where one of the servants found him in a 
box so full of rain-water, that he would certainly have been 
drowned, had he not been reserved for another fate.” 

“Ay, ay, you need not mention it, I protest: we understand 
what that fate is very well,” cries Dowling, with a most 
facetious grin. 

“Well,” continued the other, “the squire ordered him to be 
taken in; for he is a timbersome man everybody knows, and 
was afraid of drawing himself into a scrape; and there the 
bastard was bred up, and fed, and cloathified all to the world 
like any gentleman; and there he got one of the servant-maids 
with child, and persuaded her to swear it to the squire him- 
self; and afterwards he broke the arm of one Mr Thwackum 
a clergyman, only because he reprimanded him for following 
whores; and afterwards he snapt a pistol at Mr Blifil behind 
his back; and once, when Squire Allworthy was sick, he got 
a drum, and beat it all over the house to prevent him from 
sleeping; and twenty other pranks he hath played, for all 


200 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


which, about four or five days ago, just before I left the coun- 
try, the squire stripped him stark naked, and turned him out 
of doors.” 

“And very justly too, I protest,” cries Dowling; “I would 
turn my own son out of doors, if he was guilty of half as 
much. And pray what is the name of this pretty gentleman?” 

“The name o’ un?” answered Petty-fogger ; “why, he is 
called Thomas Jones.” 

“Jones!” answered Dowling a little eagerly; “what, Mr 
Jones that lived at Mr Allworthy’s? was that the gentle- 
man that dined with us?” 

“The very same,” said the other. 

“I have heard of the gentleman,” cries Dowling, “often; but 
I never heard any ill character of him.” 

“And I am sure,” says Mrs Whitefield, “if half what this 
gentleman hath said be true, Mr Jones hath the most deceitful 
countenance I ever saw; for sure his looks promise something 
very different; and I must say, for the little I have seen of 
him, he is as civil a well-bred man as you would wish to converse 
with.” 

Petty-fogger calling to mind that he had not been sworn, 
as he usually was, before giving his evidence, now bound what 
he had declared with so many oaths and imprecations that the 
landlady’s ears were shocked, and she put a stop to his swear- 
ing, by assuring him of her belief. 

Dowling sat all this while silent, biting his fingers, making 
faces, grinning, and looking wonderfully arch ; at last he 
opened his lips, and protested that the gentleman looked like 
another sort of man. He then called for his bill with the 
utmost haste, declared he must be at Hereford that evening, 
lamented his great hurry of business, and wished he could 
divide himself into twenty pieces, in order to be at once in 
twenty places. 

The petty-fogger now likewise departed, and then Jones 
desired the favour of Mrs Whitefield’s company to drink tea 
with him ; but she refused, and with a manner so different 
from that with which she had received him at dinner, that it 
a little surprized him. And now he soon perceived her be- 
haviour totally changed; for instead of that natural affability 
which we have before celebrated, she wore a constrained sever- 
ity on her countenance, which was so disagreeable to Mr 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


201 


Jones, that he resolved, however late, to quit the house that 
evening. He therefore paid his reckoning and departed, highly 
against the will of Mr Partridge, w T ho having remonstrated 
much against it to no purpose, at last condescended to take 
up his knapsack and to attend his friend. 

The clock struck five just as Mr Jones took his leave of 
Gloucester; an hour at which (as it was now mid-winter) the 
dirty fingers of Night would have drawn her sable curtain 
over the universe, had not the moon forbid her, who now, 
with a face as broad and as red as those of some jolly mortals, 
who, like her, turn night into day, began to rise from her bed, 
where she had slumbered away the day, in order to sit up all 
night. 

Jones had not travelled far before he paid his compliments 
to that beautiful planet, and, turning to his companion, asked 
him if he had ever beheld so delicious an evening? Partridge 
making no ready answer to his question, he proceeded to com- 
ment on the beauty of the moon, and repeated some passages 
from Milton, who hath certainly excelled all other poets in 
his description of the heavenly luminaries. He then told Part- 
ridge the story from the Spectator, of two lovers who had 
agreed to entertain themselves when they were at a great dis- 
tance from each other, by repairing, at a certain fixed hour, to 
look at the moon; thus pleasing themselves with the thought 
that they were both employed in contemplating the same object 
at the same time. 

“Those lovers,” added he, “must have had souls truly 
capable of feeling all the tenderness of the sublimest of all hu- 
man passions.” 

“Very probably,” cries Partridge : “but I envy them more, 
if they had bodies incapable of feeling cold; for I am almost 
frozen to death, and am very much afraid I shall lose a piece of 
my nose before we get to another house of entertainment. Nay, 
truly, we may well expect some judgment should happen to us 
for our folly in running away so by night from one of the most 
excellent inns I ever set my foot into. I am sure I never saw 
more good things in my life, and the greatest lord in the land 
cannot live better in his own house than he may there. And to 
forsake such a house, and go a rambling about the country, 
the Lord knows whither, per devia rura viarum, I say nothing 


202 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


for my part; but some people might not have charity enough 
to conclude we were in our sober senses.” 

“Fie upon it, Mr Partridge!” says Jones, “have a better 
heart; consider you are going to face an enemy; and are you 
afraid of facing a little cold? I wish, indeed, we had a guide 
to advise which of these roads we should take.” 

“May I be so bold,” says Partridge, “to offer my advice? 
Interdum stultus opportuna loquitur ” 

“Why, which of them,” cries Jones, “would you recom- 
mend?” 

“Truly neither of them,” answered Partridge. “The only 
road we can be certain of finding, is the road we came. A 
good hearty pace will bring us back to Gloucester in an hour; 
but if we go forward, the Lord Harry knows when we shall 
arrive at any place; for I see at least fifty miles before me, and 
no house in all the way.” 

“You see, indeed, a very fair prospect,” says Jones, “which 
receives great additional beauty from the extreme lustre of the 
moon. However, I will keep the left-hand track, as that 
seems to lead directly to those hills, which we were informed 
lie not far from Worcester. And here, if you are inclined to 
quit me, you may, and return back again; but for my part, I 
am resolved to go forward.” 

“It is unkind in you, sir,” says Partridge, “to suspect me of 
any such intention. What I have advised hath been as much 
on your account as on my own: but since you are determined 
to go on, I am as much determined to follow. I prce sequar te ” 

They now travelled some miles without speaking to each 
other, during w T hich suspense of discourse Jones often sighed, 
and Partridge groaned as bitterly, though from a very different 
reason. At length Jones made a full stop, and turning about, 
cries, “Who knows, Partridge, but the loveliest creature in 
the universe may have her eyes now fixed on that very moon 
which I behold at this instant?” 

“Very likely, sir,” answered Partridge; “and if my eyes were 
fixed on a good sirloin of roast beef, the devil might take the 
moon and her horns into the bargain.” 

“Did ever Tramontane make such an answer?” cries Jones. 
“Prithee, Partridge, wast thou ever susceptible of love in thy 
life, or hath time worn away all the traces of it from thy mem- 
ory?” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


203 


“Alack-a-day !” cries Partridge, “well would it have been 
for me if I had never known what love was. Infandum re- 
gina jubes renovare dolorem . I am sure I have tasted all the 
tenderness, and sublimities, and bitternesses of the passion.” 

“Was your mistress unkind, then?” says Jones. 

“Very unkind, indeed, sir,” answered Partridge; “for she 
married me, and made one of the most confounded wives in the 
world. However, heaven be praised, she’s gone; and if I be- 
lieved she was in the moon, according to a book I once read, 
which teaches that to be the receptacle of departed spirits, I 
would never look at it for fear of seeing her; but I wish, sir, 
that the moon was a looking-glass for your sake, and that Miss 
Sophia Western was now placed before it.” 

“My dear Partridge,” cries Jones, “what a thought was 
there! A thought which I am certain could never have en- 
tered into any mind but that of a lover. O, Partridge! could 
I hope once again to see that face; but, alas! all those golden 
dreams are vanished for ever, and my only refuge from future 
misery is to forget the object of all my former happiness.” 

“And do you really despair of ever seeing Miss Western 
again?” answered Partridge; “if you will follow my advice I 
will engage you shall not only see her but have her in your 
arms.” 

“Ha! do not awaken a thought of that nature,” cries Jones: 
“I have struggled sufficiently to conquer all such wishes al- 
ready.” 

“Nay,” answered Partridge, “if you do not wish to have 
your mistress in your arms you are a most extraordinary lover 
indeed.” 

“Well, well,” says Jones, “let us avoid this subject; but 
pray what is your advice?” 

“To give it you in the military phrase, then,” says Partridge, 
“as we are soldiers, ‘To the right about.’ Let us return the 
way we came; we may yet reach Gloucester to-night, though 
late; whereas, if we proceed, we are likely, for aught I see, to 
ramble about for ever without coming either to house or home.” 

“I have already told you my resolution is to go on,” an- 
swered Jones; “but I would have you go back. I am obliged 
to. you for your company thither; and I beg you to accept a 
guinea as a small instance of my gratitude. Nay, it would be 
cruel in me to suffer you to go any farther ; for, to deal plainly 


204 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


with you, my chief end and desire is a glorious death in the 
service of my king and country.” 

“As for your money,” replied Partridge, “I beg, sir, you will 
put it up ; I will receive none of you at this time ; for at present 
I am, I believe, the richer man of the two. And as your reso- 
lution is to go on, so mine is to follow you if you do. Nay, 
now my presence appears absolutely necessary to take care of 
you, since your intentions are so desperate; for I promise you 
my views are much more prudent ; as you are resolved to fall in 
battle if you can, so I am resolved as firmly to come to no hurt 
if I can help it. And, indeed, I have the comfort to think 
there will be but little danger ; for a popish priest told me the 
other day the business would soon be over, and he believed 
without a battle.” 

“A popish priest,” cries Jones, “I have heard is not always 
to be believed when he speaks in behalf of his religion.” 

“Yes, but so far,” answered the other, “from speaking in 
behalf of his religion, he assured me the Catholicks did not ex- 
pect to be any gainers by the change; for that Prince Charles 
was as good a Protestant as any in England; and that nothing 
but regard to right made him and the rest of the popish party 
to be Jacobites.” 

“I believe him to be as much a Protestant as I believe he 
hath any right,” says Jones; “and I make no doubt of our suc- 
cess, but not without a battle. So that I am not so sanguine 
as your friend the popish priest.” 

“Nay, to be sure, sir,” answered Partridge, “all the proph- 
ecies I have ever read speak of a great deal of blood to be 
spilt in the quarrel, and the miller with three thumbs, who is 
now alive, is to hold the horses of three kings, up to his knees 
in blood. Lord, have mercy upon us all, and send better 
times !” 

“With what stuff and nonsense hast thou filled thy head!” 
answered Jones: “this too, I suppose, comes from the popish 
priest. Monsters and prodigies are the proper arguments to 
support monstrous and absurd doctrines. The cause of King 
George is the cause of liberty and true religion. In other 
words, it is the cause of common sense, my boy, and I warrant 
you will succeed, though Briarius himself was to rise again 
with his hundred thumbs, and to turn miller.” 

At this instant Partridge espied a glimmering light through 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


205 


some trees, which seemed very near to them. He immediately 
cried out in a rapture, “Oh, sir! Heaven hath at last heard 
my prayers, and hath brought us to a house; perhaps it may be 
an inn. Let me beseech you, sir, if you have any compassion 
either for me or yourself, do not despise the goodness of Provi- 
dence, but let us go directly to yon light. Whether it be a 
public-house or no, I am sure if they be Christians that dwell 
there, they will not refuse a little house-room to persons in our 
miserable condition.” Jones at length yielded to the earnest 
supplications of Partridge, and both together made directly to- 
wards the place whence the light issued. 

They soon arrived at the door of this house, or cottage, for 
it might be called either, without much impropriety. Here 
Jones knocked several times without receiving any answer from 
within; at which Partridge, whose head was full of nothing 
but of ghosts, devils, witches, and such like, began to tremble, 
crying, “Lord, have mercy upon us! surely the people must be 
all dead. I can see no light neither now, and yet I am certain 
I saw a candle burning but a moment before. — Well! I have 
heard of such things.” 

“What hast thou heard of?” said Jones. “The people are 
either fast asleep, or probably, as this is a lonely place, are 
afraid to open their door.” 

He then began to vociferate pretty loudly, and at last an 
old woman, opening an upper casement, asked, who they were, 
and what they wanted? Jones answered, they were travellers 
who had lost their way, and having seen a light in the window, 
had been led thither in hopes of finding some fire to warm 
themselves. 

“Whoever you are,” cries the woman, “you have no business 
here; nor shall I open the door to any one at this time of 
night.” 

Partridge, whom the sound of a human voice had recovered 
from his fright, fell to the most earnest supplications to be ad- 
mitted for a few minutes to the fire, saying, he was almost dead 
with the cold; to which fear had indeed contributed equally 
with the frost. He assured her that the gentleman who spoke 
to her was one of the greatest squires in the country ; and made 
use of every argument, save one, which Jones afterwards effec- 
tually added; and this was, the promise of half-a-crown ; — a 
bribe too great to be resisted by such a person, especially as the 


206 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


genteel appearance of Jones, which the light of the moon 
plainly discovered to her, together with his affable behaviour, 
had entirely subdued those apprehensions of thieves which she 
had at first conceived. She agreed, therefore, at last, to let 
them in; where Partridge, to his infinite joy, found a good fire 
ready for his reception. 

The master of the house presently returned, and though 
he gave our travellers no very cordial welcome, he consented, 
at last, to their passing the night beneath his roof. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Containing a very surprizing adventure indeed j which Mr 
Jones met with ; and a very full description of the battle 
of Upton . 

^URORA now first opened her casement, Anglice the day 
began to break, when Jones walked forth in company 
with his host of the night, and mounted Mazard Hill ; of which 
they had no sooner gained the summit than they heard at a 
distance the most violent screams of a woman, proceeding from 
the wood below them. Jones listened a moment, and then, 
without saying a word to his companion (for indeed the oc- 
casion seemed sufficiently pressing), ran, or rather slid down 
the hill, and, without the least apprehension or concern for his 
own safety, made directly to the thicket, whence the sound had 
issued. 

He had not entered far into the wood before he beheld a 
most shocking sight indeed, a woman stript half naked, under 
the hands of a ruffian, who had put his garter round her neck, 
and was endeavouring to draw her up to a tree. Jones asked 
no questions at this interval, but fell instantly upon the villain, 
and made such good use of his trusty oaken stick that he laid 
him sprawling on the ground before he could defend himself, in- 
deed almost before he knew he was attacked; nor did he cease 
the prosecution of his blows till the woman herself begged 
him to forbear, saying, she believed he had sufficiently done his 
business. 

The poor wretch then fell upon her knees to Jones, and 
gave him a thousand thanks for her deliverance. He presently 
lifted her up, and told her he was highly pleased with the 
extraordinary accident which had sent him thither for her relief, 
where it was so improbable she should find any; adding, that 
Heaven seemed to have designed him as the happy instrument 
of her protection. 

“Nay,” answered she, “I could almost conceive you to be 
some good angel ; and, to say the truth, you look more like an 
angel than a man in my eye.” 


208 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Indeed he was a charming figure; and if a very fine person, 
and a most comely set of features, adorned with youth, health, 
strength, freshness, spirit, and good-nature, can make a man 
resemble an angel, he certainly had that resemblance. 

The redeemed captive had not altogether so much of the 
human-angelic species: she seemed to be at least of the middle 
age, nor had her face much appearance of beauty; but her 
clothes being torn from all the upper part of her body, her 
breasts, which were well formed and extremely white, at- | 
tracted the eyes of her deliverer, and for a few moments they 
stood silent, and gazing at each other; till the ruffian on the 
ground beginning to move, Jones took the garter which had been 
intended for another purpose, and bound both his hands be- 
hind him. And now, on contemplating his face, he discovered, 
greatly to his surprize, and perhaps not a little to his satisfac- 
tion, this very person to be no other than ensign Northerton. 
Nor had the ensign forgotten his former antagonist, whom he 
knew the moment he came to himself. His surprize was equal 
to that of Jones; but I conceive his pleasure was rather less on 
this occasion. 

Jones helped Northerton upon his legs, and then looking him 
stedfastly in the face, “I fancy, sir,” said he, “you did not expect 
to meet me any more in this world, and I confess I had as little 
expectation to find you here. However, fortune, I see, hath 
brought us once more together, and hath given me satisfaction 
for the injury I have received, even without my own knowl- 
edge.” . 

“It is very much like a man of honour, indeed,” answered 
Northerton, “to take satisfaction by knocking a man down 
behind his back. Neither am I capable of giving you satis- 
faction here, as I have no sword; but if you dare behave like 
a gentleman, let us go where I can furnish myself with one, and 
I will do by you as a man of honour ought.” 

“Doth it become such a villain as you are,” cries Jones, “to 
contaminate the name of honour by assuming it? But I shall 
waste no time in discourse with you. Justice requires satis- 
faction of you now, and shall have it.” 

Then turning to the woman, he asked her, if she was near 
her home ; or if not, whether she was acquainted with any house 
in the neighbourhood, where she might procure herself some 
decent clothes, in order to proceed to a justice of the peace. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


209 

She answered she was an entire stranger in that part of the 
world. Jones then recollecting himself, said, he had a friend 
near who would direct them ; indeed, he wondered at his not 
following; but, in fact, the good fellow, when our hero departed, 
sat himself down on the brow, where, though he had a gun in 
his hand, he with great patience and unconcern had attended the 
issue. 

Jones then stepping without the wood, perceived the old man 
sitting as we have just described him; he presently exerted his 
utmost agility, and with surprizing expedition ascended the hill. 

The old man advised him to carry the woman to Upton, 
which, he said, was the nearest town, and there he would be sure 
of furnishing her with all manner of conveniencies. Jones hav- 
ing received his direction to the place, took his leave of his host, 
and, desiring him to direct Partridge the same way, returned 
hastily to the wood. 

Our hero, at his departure to make this enquiry of his friend, 
had considered, that as the ruffian’s hands were tied behind him, 
he was incapable of executing any wicked purposes on the poor 
woman. Besides, he knew he should not be beyond the reach 
of her voice, and could return soon enough to prevent any mis- 
chief. He had moreover declared to the villain, that if he 
attempted the least insult, he would be himself immediately the 
executioner of vengeance on him. But Jones unluckily forgot, 
that though the hands of Northerton were tied, his legs were at 
liberty; nor did he lay the least injunction on the prisoner that 
he should not make what use of these he pleased. Northerton 
therefore having given no parole of that kind, thought he might 
without any breach of honour depart; not being obliged, as he 
imagined, by any rules, to wait for a formal discharge. He 
therefore took up his legs, which were at liberty, and walked off 
through the wood, which favoured his retreat; nor did the 
woman, whose eyes were perhaps rather turned toward her 
deliverer, once think of his escape, or give herself any concern 
or trouble to prevent it. 

Jones therefore, at his return, found the woman alone. He 
would have spent some time in searching for Northerton, but 
she would not permit him ; earnestly entreating that he would 
accompany her to the town whither they had been directed. 

“As to the fellow’s escape,” said she, “it gives me no uneasi- 
ness ; for philosophy and Christianity both preach up forgiveness 


210 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


of injuries. But for you, sir, I am concerned at the trouble I 
give you ; nay, indeed, my nakedness may well make me ashamed 
to look you in the face; and if it was not for the sake of your 
protection, I should wish to go alone.” 

Jones offered her his coat ; but, I know not for what reason, 
she absolutely refused the most earnest solicitations to accept it. 
He then begged her to forget both the causes of her confusion. 

“With regard to the former,” says he, “I have done no more 
than my duty in protecting you; and as for the latter, I will 
entirely remove it, by walking before you all the way; for I 
would not have my eyes offend you, and I could not answer for 
my power of resisting the attractive charms of so much beauty.” 

Thus our hero and the redeemed lady walked in the same 
manner as Orpheus and Eurydice marched heretofore; but 
though I cannot believe that Jones was designedly tempted by 
his fair one to look behind him, yet as she frequently wanted his 
assistance to help her over stiles, and had besides many trips and 
other accidents, he was often obliged to turn about. However, 
he had better fortune than what attended poor Orpheus, for he 
brought his companion, or rather follower, safe into the famous 
town of Upton. 

Mr Jones and his fair companion no sooner entered the town, 
than they went directly to that inn which in their eyes presented 
the fairest appearance to the street. Here Jones, having ordered 
a servant to show a room above stairs, was ascending, when the 
dishevelled fair, hastily following, was laid hold on by the 
master of the house, who cried, “Heyday, where is that beggar 
w r ench going? Stay below stairs, I desire you.” 

But Jones at that instant thundered from above, “Let the lady 
come up,” in so authoritative a voice, that the good man instantly 
withdrew his hands, and the lady made the best of her way to the 
chamber. 

Here Jones wished her joy of her safe arrival, and then de- 
parted, in order, as he promised, to send the landlady up with 
some clothes. The poor woman thanked him heartily for all 
his kindness, and said, she hoped she should see him again soon, 
to thank him a thousand times more. During this short con- 
versation, she covered her white bosom as well as she could pos- 
sibly with her arms; for Jones could not avoid stealing a sly peep 
or two, though he took all imaginable care to avoid giving any 
offence. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


211 


Our travellers had happened to take up their residence at a 
house of exceeding good repute, whither Irish ladies of strict 
virtue, and many northern lasses of the same predicament, were 
accustomed to resort in their way to Bath. The landlady there- 
fore would by no means have admitted any conversation of a 
disreputable kind to pass under her roof. 

Now it required no very blameable degree of suspicion to 
imagine that Mr Jones and his ragged companion had certain 
purposes in their intention, which, though tolerated in some 
Christian countries, connived at in others, and practiced in all, 
are however as expressly forbidden as murder, or any other 
horrid vice, by that religion which is universally believed in those 
countries. The landlady, therefore, had no sooner received an 
intimation of the entrance of the above-said persons than she 
began to meditate the most expeditious means for their expulsion. 
In order to this, she had provided herself with a long and 
deadly instrument, with wdiich, in times of peace, the chamber- 
maid was wont to demolish the labours of the industrious spider. 
In vulgar phrase, she had taken up the broomstick, and was just 
about to sally from the kitchen, when Jones accosted her with 
a demand of a gown and other vestments, to cover the half- 
naked woman upstairs. 

Nothing can be more provoking to the human temper, nor 
more dangerous to that cardinal virtue, patience, than solicita- 
tions of extraordinary offices of kindness on behalf of those very 
persons with whom we are highly incensed, and Jones had 
scarce ended his request, when she fell upon him with a certain 
weapon, which, though it be neither long, nor sharp, nor hard, 
nor indeed threatens from its appearance with either death or 
wound, hath been however held in great dread and abhorrence 
by many wise men — nay, by many brave ones; insomuch, that 
some who have dared to look into the mouth of a loaded can- 
non, have not dared to look into a mouth where this weapon 
was brandished; and rather than run the hazard of its execu- 
tion, have contented themselves with making a most pitiful 
and sneaking figure in the eyes of all their acquaintance. 

To confess the truth, I am afraid Mr Jones was one of these; 
for though he was attacked and violently belaboured with the 
aforesaid weapon, he could not be provoked to make any resist- 
ance; but in a most cowardly manner applied, with many en- 
treaties, to his antagonist to desist from pursuing her blows; 


212 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


in plain English, he only begged her with the utmost earnest- ! 
ness to hear him; but before he could obtain his request, my j 
landlord himself entered into the fray, and embraced that side 
of the cause which seemed to stand very little in need of 
assistance, when a swinging blow from the cudgel that Jones 
carried in his hand assaulted him over the shoulders. 

It is a question whether the landlord or the landlady was 
the most expeditious in returning this blow. My landlord, 
whose hands were empty, fell to with his fist, and the good wife, . , 
uplifting her broom and aiming at the head of Jones, had prob- 
ably put an immediate end to the fray, and to Jones likewise, 
had not the descent of this broom been prevented — not by the 
miraculous intervention of any heathen deity, but by a very 
natural though fortunate accident, viz., by the arrival of Part- 
ridge; who entered the house at that instant, and who, seeing 
the danger which threatened his master or companion (which 
you chuse to call him), prevented so sad a catastrophe, by 
catching hold of the landlady’s arm as it was brandished aloft 
in the air. 

The landlady soon perceived the impediment which prevented 
her blow; and being unable to rescue her arm from the hands 
of Partridge, she let fall the broom; and then leaving Jones 
to the discipline of her husband, she fell with the utmost fury 
on that poor fellow, who had already given some intimation of 
himself, by crying, “Zounds! do you intend to kill my friend?” 

Partridge, though not much addicted to battle, would not 
however stand still when his friend was attacked ; nor was he 
much displeased with that part of the combat which fell to his 
share; he therefore returned my landlady’s blows as soon as he 
received them : and now the fight was obstinately maintained on 
all parts, and it seemed doubtful to which side Fortune would 
incline, when the naked lady, who had listened at the top of the 
stairs to the dialogue which preceded the engagement, descended 
suddenly from above, and without weighing the unfair inequal- 
ity of two to one, fell upon the poor woman who was boxing 
with Partridge; nor did that great champion desist, but rather 
redoubled his fury, when he found fresh succours were arrived 
to his assistance. 

Victory must now have fallen to the side of the travellers 
(for the bravest troops must yield to numbers) had not Susan 
the chambermaid come luckily to support her mistress, and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


213 

challenged Partridge to single combat. He accepted the chal- 
lenge, and a most desperate fight began between them. 

Now the dogs of war being let loose, began to lick their bloody 
lips; now Victory, with golden wings, hung hovering in the 
air; now Fortune, taking her scales from her shelf, began to 
weigh the fates of Tom Jones, his female companion, and Part- 
ridge, against the landlord, his wife, and maid; all which hung 
in exact balance before her; when a good-natured accident put 
suddenly an end to the bloody fray, with which half of the 
combatants had already sufficiently feasted. This accident was 
the arrival of a coach and four; upon which my landlord and 
landlady immediately desisted from fighting, and at their 
entreaty obtained the same favour of their antagonists; but 
Susan was not so kind to Partridge; for that Amazonian fair 
having overthrown and bestrid her enemy, was now cuffing 
him lustily with both her hands, without any regard to his 
request of a cessation of arms, or to those loud exclamations 
of murder which he roared forth. 

No sooner, however, had Jones quitted the landlord, than he 
flew to the rescue of his defeated companion, from whom he 
with much difficulty drew off the enraged chambermaid: but 
Partridge was not immediately sensible of his deliverance, for 
he still lay flat on the floor, guarding his face with his hands; 
nor did he cease roaring till Jones had forced him to look up, 
and to perceive that the battle was at an end. 

The landlord, who had no visible hurt, and the landlady, 
hiding her well-scratched face with her handkerchief, ran both 
hastily to the door to attend the coach, from which a young 
lady and her maid now alighted. These the landlady presently 
ushered into that room where Mr Jones had at first deposited 
his fair prize, as it was the best apartment in the house. Hither 
they were obliged to pass through the field of battle, which they 
did with the utmost haste, covering their faces with their hand- 
kerchiefs, as desirous to avoid the notice of any one. Indeed 
their caution was quite unnecessary; for the poor unfortunate 
Helen, the fatal cause of all the bloodshed, was entirely taken 
up in endeavouring to conceal her own face, and Jones was no 
less occupied in rescuing Partridge from the fury of Susan; 
which being happily effected, the poor fellow immediately 
departed to the pump to wash his face, and to stop that bloody 


2I 4 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

torrent which Susan had plentifully set a-flowing from his 
nostrils. 

A serjeant and a file of musqueteers, with a deserter in their 
custody, arrived about this time. The serjeant presently en- 
quired for the principal magistrate of the town, and was in- 
formed by my landlord, that he himself was vested in that 
office. He then demanded his billets, together with a mug of 
beer, and complaining it was cold, spread himself before the 
kitchen fire. 

Mr Jones was at this time comforting the poor distressed 
lady, who sat down at a table in the kitchen, and leaning her 
head upon her arm, was bemoaning her misfortunes; but lest 
my fair readers should be in pain concerning a particular cir- 
cumstance, I think proper here to acquaint them, that before 
she had quitted the room above stairs, she had so well covered 
herself with a pillowbeer which she there found, that her regard 
to decency was not in the least violated by the presence of so 
many men as were now in the room. 

One of the soldiers now went up to the serjeant, and whis- 
pered something in his ear; upon which he stedfastly fixed 
his eyes on the lady, and having looked at her for near a minute, 
he came up to her, saying, “I ask pardon, madam; but I am 
certain I am not deceived; you can be no other person than 
Captain Waters’s lady?” 

The poor woman, who in her present distress had very little 
regarded the face of any person present, no sooner looked at the 
serjeant than she presently recollected him, and calling him 
by his name, answered, that she was indeed the unhappy person 
he imagined her to be; but added, “I wonder any one should 
know me in this disguise.” To which the serjeant replied, he 
was very much surprized to see her ladyship in such a dress, and 
was afraid some accident had happened to her. 

“An accident hath happened to me, indeed,” says she, “and 
I am highly obliged to this gentleman” (pointing to Jones) 
“that it was not a fatal one, or that I am now living to men- 
tion it.” 

The landlady, who heard from the stairs all that past between 
the serjeant and Mrs Waters, came hastily down, and running 
directly up to her, began to ask pardon for the offences she had 
committed, begging that all might be imputed to ignorance of 
her quality: for, “Lud! madam,” says she, “how should I have 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


215 


imagined that a lady of your fashion would appear in such a 
dress? I am sure, madam, if I had once suspected that your 
ladyship was your ladyship, I would sooner have burnt my 
tongue out, than have said what I have said; and I hope your 
ladyship will accept of a gown, till you can get your own 
clothes.” 

“Prithee, woman,” says Mrs Waters, “cease your imperti- 
nence : how can you imagine I should concern myself about 
anything which comes from the lips of such low creatures as 
yourself? But I am surprized at your assurance in thinking, 
after what is past, that I will condescend to put on any of your 
dirty things. I would have you know, creature, I have a spirit 
above that.” 

Here Jones interfered, and begged Mrs Waters to forgive 
the landlady, and to accept her gown: “for I must confess,” 
cries he, “our appearance w T as a little suspicious when first we 
came in; and I am well assured all this good woman did was, 
as she professed, out of regard to the reputation of her house.” 

“Yes, upon my truly was it,” says she: “the gentleman speaks 
very much like a gentleman, and I see very plainly is so ; and 
to be certain the house is well known to be a house of as good 
reputation as any on the road, and though I say it, is frequented 
by gentry of the best quality, both Irish and English. I defy 
anybody to say black is my eye, for that matter. And, as I was 
saying, if I had known your ladyship to be your ladyship, I 
would as soon have burnt my fingers as have affronted your 
ladyship; and if your ladyship will do me the honour to wear 
my clothes till you can get some of your ladyship’s own, to be 
certain the best I have is at your ladyship’s service.” 

Whether cold, shame, or the persuasions of Mr Jones pre- 
vailed most on Mrs Waters, I will not determine, but she 
suffered herself to be pacified by this speech of my landlady, 
and retired with that good woman, in order to apparel herself 
in a decent manner. 

My landlord was likewise beginning his oration to Jones, 
but was presently interrupted by that generous youth, who 
shook him heartily by the hand, and assured him of entire for- 
giveness, saying, “If you are satisfied, my worthy friend, I 
promise you I am;” and indeed, in one sense, the landlord had 
the better reason to be satisfied; for he had received a bellyful 
of drubbing, whereas Jones had scarce felt a single blow. 


2l6 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


The good people now ranged themselves round the kitchen 
fire, where good humour seemed to maintain an absolute domin- 
ion; and Partridge not only forgot his shameful defeat, but 
converted hunger into thirst, and soon became extremely face- 
tious. We must however quit this agreeable assembly, and 
attend Mr Jones to Mrs Waters’s apartment, where the dinner 
which he had bespoke was now on the table. Indeed, it took 
no long time in preparing, having been all drest three days 
before, and required nothing more from the cook than to warm 
it over again. 

Heroes, notwithstanding the high ideas which, by the means 
of flatterers, they may entertain of themselves, or the world 
may conceive of them, have certainly more of mortal than divine 
about them. However elevated their minds may be, their bodies 
at least (which is much the major part of most) are liable to 
the worst infirmities, and subject to the vilest offices of human 
nature. Among these latter, the act of eating, which hath by 
several wise men been considered as extremely mean and deroga- 
tory from the philosophic dignity, must be in some measure per- 
formed by the greatest prince, hero, or philosopher upon earth ; 
nay, sometimes Nature hath been so frolicsome as to exact of 
these dignified characters a much more exorbitant share of this 
office than she hath obliged those of the lowest order to perform. 

Now, after this short preface, we think it no disparagement 
to our hero to mention the immoderate ardour with which he 
laid about him at this season. Indeed, it may be doubted 
whether Ulysses, who by the way seems to have had the best 
stomach of all the heroes in that eating poem of the Odyssey, 
ever made a better meal. Three pounds at least of that flesh 
which formerly had contributed to the composition of an ox was 
now honoured with becoming part of the individual Mr Jones. 

This particular we thought ourselves obliged to mention, as 
it may account for our hero’s temporary neglect of his fair com- 
panion, who eat but very little, and was indeed employed in 
considerations of a very different nature, which passed unob- 
served by Jones, till he had entirely satisfied that appetite which 
a fast of twenty-four hours had procured him; but his dinner 
was no sooner ended than his attention to other matters revived ; 
with these matters therefore we shall now proceed to acquaint 
the reader. 

Mr Jones, of whose personal accomplishments we have 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


217 


hitherto said very little, was, in reality, one of the handsomest 
young fellows in the world. His face, besides being the picture 
of health, had in it the most apparent marks of sweetness and 
good-nature. He was besides active, genteel, gay, and good- 
humoured ; and had a flow of animal spirits which enlivened 
every conversation where he was present. 

When the reader hath duly reflected on these many charms 
which all centered in our hero, and considers at the same time 
the fresh obligations which Mrs Waters had to him, it will be 
a mark more of prudery than candour to entertain a bad opinion 
of her because she conceived a very good opinion of him. 

But, whatever censures may be passed upon her, it is my 
business to relate matters of fact with veracity. Mrs Waters 
had, in truth, not only a good opinion of our hero, but a very 
great affection for him. To speak out boldly at once, she was 
in love, according to the present universally-received sense of 
that phrase, by which love is applied indiscriminately to the de- 
sirable objects of all our passions, appetites, and senses, and is 
understood to be that preference which we give to one kind of 
food rather than to another. 

This was the less remarkable since she was, in a way, sub- 
ject to these attacks. She had industriously avoided any explana- 
tion of the extraordinary situation in which Jones had found 
her, notwithstanding a few hints which he had thrown out; 
but for the reader’s benefit I will state that she had lived for 
some years with one Captain Waters, who was captain in the 
same regiment to which Mr Northerton belonged. She had 
for some time contracted an intimacy with the above-mentioned 
ensign; who, after his escape from prison, had hastened to her 
at Worcester and persuaded her to accompany him abroad; for 
which excursion she agreed to furnish him the money, she hav- 
ing at that time in her pocket three bank-notes to the amount 
of £90 and a diamond ring of pretty considerable value on her 
finger. 

They started together on foot across countiy to Hereford, 
very early in the morning ; and arriving in the midst of a wood, 
where it was very improbable he should meet with any inter- 
ruption, Northerton suddenly slipped his garter from his leg 
and, laying violent hands on the poor woman, endeavoured to 
perpetrate that dreadful and detestable fact which the provi^ 
dential appearance of Jones did so fortunately prevent. 


2l8 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Such were the adventures of the lady who now, as soon as 
they had sat down together to table, began to play the artillery 
of her eyes upon our hero. But here, as w T e are about to attempt 
a description hitherto unassayed either in prose or verse, we 
think proper to invoke the assistance of certain aerial beings, 
who will, we doubt not, come kindly to our aid on this occasion. 

“Say then, ye Graces! you that inhabit the heavenly man- 
sions of Seraphina’s countenance; for you are truly divine, are 
always in her presence, and well know all the arts of charm- 
ing ; say, what were the weapons now used to captivate the heart 
of Mr Jones.” 

“First, from two lovely blue eyes, whose bright orbs flashed 
lightning at their discharge, flew forth two pointed ogles; but, 
happily for our hero, hit only a vast piece of beef which he was 
then conveying into his plate, and harmless spent their force. 
The fair w r arrior perceived their miscarriage, and immediately 
from her fair bosom drew forth a deadly sigh. A sigh which 
none could have heard unmoved, and which was sufficient at 
once to have swept off a dozen beaus; so soft, so sweet, so 
tender, that the insinuating air must have found its subtle w’ay 
to the heart of our hero, had it not luckily been driven from 
his ears by the coarse bubbling of some bottled ale, which at 
that time he was pouring forth. Many other weapons did she 
assay; but the god of eating (if there be any such deity, for I 
do not confidently assert it) preserved his votary; or perhaps 
it may not be dignus vindice nodus , and the present security of 
Jones may be accounted for by natural means; for as love fre- 
quently preserves from the attacks of hunger, so may hunger 
possibly, in some cases, defend us against love. 

“The fair one, enraged at her frequent disappointments, de- 
termined on a short cessation of arms. Which interval she 
employed in making ready every engine of amorous warfare 
for the renewing of the attack when dinner should be over. 

“No sooner then was the cloth removed than she again began 
her operations. First, having planted her right eye sidewise 
against Mr Jones, she shot from its corner a most penetrating 
glance ; which, though great part of its force was spent before it 
reached our hero, did not vent itself absolutely without effect. 
This the fair one perceiving, hastily withdrew her eyes, and 
levelled them downwards, as if she was concerned for what 
she had done; though by this means she designed only to draw 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


219 


him from his guard, and indeed to open his eyes, through which 
she intended to surprize his heart. And now, gently lifting up 
those two bright orbs which had already begun to make an 
impression on poor Jones, she discharged a volley of small 
charms at once from her whole countenance in a smile. Not 
a smile of mirth, nor of joy; but a smile of affection, which 
most ladies have always ready at their command, and which 
serves them to show at once their good-humour, their pretty 
dimples, and their white teeth. 

“This smile our hero received full in his eyes, and was im- 
mediately staggered with its force. He then began to see the 
designs of the enemy, and indeed to feel their success. A parley 
now was set on foot between the parties; during which the 
artful fair so slily and imperceptibly carried on her attack, that 
she had almost subdued the heart of our hero before she again 
repaired to acts of hostility. To confess the truth, I am afraid 
Mr Jones maintained a kind of Dutch defence, and treach- 
erously delivered up the garrison, without duly weighing his 
allegiance to the fair Sophia. In short, no sooner had the 
amorous parley ended and the lady had unmasked the royal 
battery, by carelessly letting her handkerchief drop from her 
neck, than the heart of Mr Jones was entirely taken, and the 
fair conqueror enjoyed the usual fruits of her victory.” 

Here the Graces think proper to end their description, and 
here we think proper to end the chapter. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Containing the arrival of an Irish gentleman , with very extra- 
ordinary adventures which ensued at the inn . 

the little trembling hare, which the dread of all her 
numerous enemies, and chiefly of the cunning, cruel, 
carnivorous animal, man, had confined all the day to her lurking- 
place, sports wantonly o’er the lawns ; now on some hollow tree 
the owl, shrill chorister of the night, hoots forth notes which 
might charm the ears of some modern connoisseurs in music; 
now, in the imagination of the half-drunken clowrn, as he stag- 
gers through the churchyard, or rather charnelyard, to his home, 
fear paints the bloody hobgoblin; now theives and ruffians are 
awake, and honest watchmen fast asleep; in plain English, it 
was now midnight; and the company at the inn, as well those 
who have been already mentioned in this history, as some others 
who arrived in the evening, were all in bed. Only Susan Cham- 
bermaid was now stirring, she being obliged to wash the kitchen 
before she retired to the arms of the fond expecting hostler. 

In this posture were affairs at the inn when a gentleman 
arrived there post. He immediately alighted from his horse, 
and, coming up to Susan, enquired of her, in a very abrupt and 
confused manner, being almost out of breath with eagerness, 
whether there was any lady in the house? The hour of night, 
and the behaviour of the man, who stared very wildly all the 
time, a little surprized Susan, so that she hesitated before she 
made any answer; upon which the gentleman, with redoubled 
eagerness, begged her to give him a true information, saying, 
he had lost his wife, and was come in pursuit of her. 

“Upon my shoul,” cries he, “I have been near catching her 
already in two or three places, if I had not found her gone 
just as I came up with her. If she be in the house, do carry me 
up in the dark and show her to me; and if she be gone away 
before me, do tell me which way I shall go after her to meet 
her, and, upon my soul, I will make you the richest poor woman 
in the nation,” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


221 


He then pulled out a handful of guineas, a sight which would 
have bribed persons of much greater consequence than this poor 
wench to much worse purposes. 

Susan, from the account she had received of Mrs Waters, 
made not the least doubt but that she was the very identical 
stray whom the right owner pursued. As she concluded, there- 
fore, with great appearance of reason, that she never could get 
money in an honester way than by restoring a wife to her hus- 
band, she made no scruples of assuring the gentleman that the 
lady he wanted was then in the house ; and was presently after- 
wards prevailed upon (by very liberal promises, and some 
earnest paid into her hands) to conduct him to the bedchamber 
of Mrs Waters. 

It hath been a custom long established in the polite world, 
and that upon very solid and substantial reasons, that a husband 
shall never enter his wife’s apartment without first knocking at 
the door. The many excellent uses of this custom need scarce 
be hinted to a reader who hath any knowledge of the world; 
and lucky would it have been had this custom been observed 
by our gentleman in the present instance. Knock, indeed, he 
did at the door, but not with one of those gentle raps which is 
usual on such occasions. On the contrary, when he found the 
door locked, he flew at it with such violence, that the lock 
immediately gave way, the door burst open, and he fell head- 
long into the room. 

He had no sooner recovered his legs than forth from the bed, 
upon his legs likewise, appeared — with shame and sorrow are we 
obliged to proceed — our hero himself, who, with a menacing 
voice, demanded of the gentleman who he was, and what he 
meant by daring to burst open his chamber in that outrageous 
manner. 

The gentleman at first thought he had committed a mistake, 
and was going to ask pardon and retreat, when, on a sudden, 
as the moon shone very bright, he cast his eyes on stays, gowns, 
petticoats, caps, ribbons, stockings, garters, shoes, clogs, &c., all 
which lay in a disordered manner on the floor. All these, 
operating on the natural jealousy of his temper, so enraged him, 
that he lost all power of speech; and, without returning any 
answer to Jones, he endeavoured to approach the bed. 

Jones immediately interposing, a fierce contention arose, 
which soon proceeded to blows on both sides. And now Mrs 


222 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Waters (for we must confess she was in the same bed), being, 

I suppose, awakened from her sleep, and seeing two men fight- 
ing in her bedchamber, began to scream in the mo-st violent 
manner, crying out murder ! robbery ! and more frequently rape ! 
which last, some, perhaps, may wonder she should mention, 
who do not consider that these words of exclamation are used by 
ladies in a fright, as fa, la, la, ra, da, &c., are in music, only 
as the vehicles of sound, and without any fixed ideas. 

Next to the lady’s chamber was deposited the body of an 
Irish gentleman who was proceeding to the Bath, to try his luck j 
with cards and the women. This young fellow lay in bed 
reading one of Mrs Behn’s novels; for he had been instructed 
by a friend that he would find no more effectual method of 
recommending himself to the ladies than the improving his un- 
derstanding, and filling his mind with good literature. He no 
sooner, therefore, heard the violent uproar in the next room, 
than he leapt from his bolster, and, taking his sword in one 
hand, and the candle which burnt by him in the other, he went 
directly to Mrs Waters’s chamber. 

If the sight of another man in his shirt at first added some 
shock to the decency of the lady, it made her presently amends 
by considerably abating her fears ; for no sooner had he entered 
the room than he cried out, “Mr Fitzpatrick, what the devil 
is the meaning of this?” 

Upon which the other immediately answered, “O, Mr Mac- 
lachlan! I am rejoiced you are here. — This villain hath de- 
bauched my wife, and got into bed with her.” 

“What wife?” cries Maclachlan; “do not I know Mrs Fitz- 
patrick very well, and don’t I see that this lady is none of her?” 

Fitzpatrick, now perceiving, as well by the glimpse he had 
of the lady, as by her voice, that he had made a very unfortu- 
nate mistake, began to ask many pardons. Jones was so con- 
founded with his fears for his lady’s reputation, that he knew 
neither what to say or do; but the invention of women is, as 
hath been observed, much readier than that of men. She recol- 
lected that there was a communication between her chamber 
and that of Mr Jones; relying, therefore, on his honour and her 
own assurance, she answered, “I know not what you mean, 
villains! I am wife to none of you. Help! Rape! Murder! 
Rape!” 

And now, the landlady coming into the room, Mrs Waters 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


223 

fell upon her with the utmost violence, saying, she thought her- 
self in a sober inn, and not in a bawdy-house; but that a set 
of villains had broke into her room, with an intent upon her 
honour, if not upon her life; and both, she said, were equally 
dear to her. 

The landlady now began to roar as loudly as the poor woman 
in bed had done before. She cried, she was undone, and that 
the reputation of her house, which was never blown upon before, 
was utterly destroyed. Then, turning to the men, she cried, 

What, in the devil’s name, is the reason of all this disturbance 
in the lady’s room ?” 

Fitzpatrick, hanging down his head, repeated, that he had 
committed a mistake, for which he heartily asked pardon, and 
then retired with his countryman. Jones, who was too ingen- 
ious to have missed the hint given him by his fair one, boldly 
asserted, that he had run to her assistance upon hearing the 
door broke open, with what design he could not conceive, un- 
less of robbing the lady. 

“I never had a robbery committed in my house since I have 
kept it,” cries the landlady; ‘‘I would have you to know, sir, 
I harbour no highwaymen here ; I scorn the word, thof I say it. 
None but honest, good gentlefolks, are welcome to my house; 
and, I thank good luck, I have always had enow of such custom- 
ers; indeed as many as I could entertain. Here hath been my 
lord — ,” and then she repeated over a catalogue of names and 
titles, many of which we might, perhaps, be guilty of a breach 
of privilege by inserting. 

Jones, after much patience, at length interrupted her, by mak- 
ing an apology to Mrs Waters, for having appeared before her 
in his shirt, assuring her that nothing but a concern for her 
safety could have prevailed on him to do it. The reader may 
inform himself of her answer, and, indeed, of her whole be- 
haviour to the end of the scene, by considering the situation 
which she affected, it being that of a modest lady, who was 
awakened out of her sleep by three strange men in her chamber. 
This was the part which she undertook to perform ; and, indeed, 
she executed it so well, that none of our theatrical actresses 
could exceed her, in any of their performances, either on or off 
the stage. 

The landlady, remembering that Susan had been the only 
person out of bed when the door was burst open, resorted 


224 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


presently to her, to enquire into the first occasion of the dis- 
turbance, as well as who the strange gentleman was, and when 
and how he arrived. 

Susan related the whole story which the reader knows already, 
varying the truth only in some circumstances, as she saw con- 
venient, and totally concealing the money which she had re- 
ceived. But whereas her mistress had, in the preface to her 
enquiry, spoken much in compassion for the fright which the 
lady had been in concerning any intended depredations on her 
virtue, Susan could not help endeavouring to quiet the concern 
which her mistress seemed to be under on that account, by 
swearing heartily she saw Jones leap out from her bed. The 
landlady fell into a violent rage at these words. 

“A likely story, truly,” cried she, “that a woman should cry 
out, and endeavour to expose herself, if that was the case! I 
desire to know what better proof any lady can give of her virtue 
than her crying out, which, I believe, twenty people can wit- 
ness for her she did? I beg, madam, you would spread no such 
scandal of any of my guests ; for it will not only reflect on them, 
but upon the house; and I am sure no vagabonds, nor wicked 
beggarly people, come here.” 

“Well,” says Susan, “then I must not believe my own eyes.” 

“No, indeed, must you not always,” answered her mistress; 
“I would not have believed my own eyes against such good 
gentlefolks. I have not had a better supper ordered this half- 
year than they ordered last night; and so easy and good-hu- 
moured were they ; that they found no fault with my Worcester- 
shire perry, which I sold them for champagne; and to be sure 
it is as well tasted and as wholesome as the best champagne in 
the kingdom, otherwise I would scorn to give it to ’em ; and they 
drank me two bottles. No, no, I will never believe any harm 
of such sober good sort of people.” 

Susan being thus silenced, her mistress proceeded to other 
matters. “And so you tell me,” continued she, “that the strange 
gentleman came post, and there is a footman without with the 
horses ; why, then, he is certainly some of your great gentlefolks 
too. Why did not you ask him whether he’d have any supper? 
I think he is in the other gentleman’s room; go up and ask 
whether he called. Perhaps he’ll order something when he 
finds anybody stirring in the house to dress it,” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


225 

Susan departed, and soon returned with an account that the 
two gentlemen were got both into the same bed. 

“Two gentlemen,” says the landlady, “in the same bed! that’s 
impossible; they are two arrant scrubs, I warrant them; and I 
believe young Squire Allworthy guessed right, that the fellow 
intended to rob her ladyship; for, if he had broke open the 
lady’s door with any of the wicked designs of a gentleman, he 
would never have sneaked away to another room to save the 
expense of supper and a bed to himself. They are certainly 
thieves, and their searching after a wife is nothing but pretence.” 

In these censures my landlady did Mr Fitzpatrick great in- 
justice; for he was really born a gentleman, though not worth 
a groat; and though, perhaps, he had some few blemishes in his 
heart as well as in his head, yet being a sneaking or a niggardly 
fellow was not one of them. In reality, he was so generous 
a man, that, whereas he had received a very handsome fortune 
with his wife, he had now spent every penny of it, except some 
little pittance which was settled upon her ; and, in order to pos- 
sess himself of this, he had used her with such cruelty, that, 
together with his jealousy, which was of the bitterest kind, it 
had forced the poor woman to run away from him. This 
gentleman then being well tired with his long journey from 
Chester in one day, yielded to the dissuasions of his friend from 
searching any farther after her that night, and accepted the 
kind offer of part of his bed. 

The footman and post-boy were in a different disposition. 
They were more ready to order than the landlady was to pro- 
vide; however, after being pretty well satisfied by them of the 
real truth of the case, and that Mr Fitzpatrick was no thief, 
she was at length prevailed on to set some cold meat before 
them, which they were devouring with great greediness, when 
Partridge came into the kitchen. He had been first awaked 
by the hurry which we have before seen ; and while he was en- 
deavouring to compose himself again on his pillow, a screech- 
owl had given him such a serenade at his window, that he 
leapt in a most horrible affright from his bed, and, huddling 
on his clothes with great expedition, ran down to the protec- 
tion of the company, whom he heard talking below in the 
kitchen. 

And now arrived another post-boy at the gate; upon which 
Susan, being ordered out, returned, introducing two young 


226 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


women in riding habits, one of which was so very richly laced, 
that Partridge and the post-boy instantly started from their 
chairs, and my landlady fell to her courtsies, and her ladyships, 
with great eagerness. 

The lady in the rich habit said, with a smile of great con- 
descension, “If you will give me leave, madam, I will warm 
myself a few minutes at your kitchen fire, for it is really very 
cold ; but I must insist on disturbing no one from his seat.” 

This was spoken on account of Partridge, who had re- 
treated to the other end of the room, struck with the utmost 
awe and astonishment at the splendour of the lady’s dress. In- 
deed, she had a much better title to respect than this; for she 
was one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. 

The lady earnestly desired Partridge to return to his seat; 
but could not prevail. She then pulled off her gloves, and dis- 
played to the fire two hands, which had every property of snow 
in them, except that of melting. Pier companion, who was 
indeed her maid, likewise pulled off her gloves, and discovered 
what bore an exact resemblance, in cold and colour, to a piece 
of frozen beef. 

“I wish, madam,” quote the latter, “your ladyship would 
not think of going any farther to-night. I am terribly afraid 
your ladyship will not be able to bear the fatigue.” 

“Why sure,” cries the landlady, “her ladyship’s honour can 
never intend it. O, bless me! farther to-night, indeed! let me 

beseech your ladyship not to think on’t But, to be sure, your 

ladyship can’t. What will your honour be pleased to have for 
supper? I have mutton of all kinds, and some nice chicken.” 

“I think, madam,” said the lady, “it would be rather break- 
fast than supper; but I can’t eat anything; and if I stay, shall 
only lie down for an hour or two. However, if you please, 
madam, you can get me a little sack whey, made very small and 
thin.” 

“Yes, madam,” cries the mistress of the house, “I have some 
excellent white wine.” 

“You have no sack, then?” says the lady. 

“Yes, an’t please your honour, I have; I may challenge the 
country for that — but let me beg your ladyship to eat some- 
thing.” 

“Upon my word, I can’t eat a morsel,” answered the lady; 
“and I shall be much obliged to you if you will please to get my 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


227 

apartment ready as soon as possible; for I am resolved to be on 
horseback again in three hours.” 

“Why, Susan,” cries the landlady, “is there a fire lit yet in 
the Wild-goose? I am sorry, madam, all my best rooms are 
full. Several people of the first quality are now in bed. Here’s 
a great young squire, and many other great gentlefolks of 
quality.” 

Susan answered, that the Irish gentlemen were got into the 
Wild-goose. 

“Was ever anything like it?” says the mistress; “why the 
devil would you not keep some of the best rooms for the quality, 
when you know scarce a day passes without some calling here? 

If they be gentlemen, I am certain, when they know it is 

for her ladyship, they will get up again.” 

“Not upon my account,” says the lady; “I will have no per- 
son disturbed for me. If you have a room that is commonly 
decent, it will serve me very well, though it be never so plain. 
I beg, madam, you will not give yourself so much trouble on 
my account.” 

“O, madam !” cries the other, “I have several very good rooms 
for that matter, but none good enough for your honour’s lady- 
ship. However, as you are so condescending to take up with 
the best I have, do, Susan, get a fire in the Rose this minute. 
Will your ladyship be pleased to go up now, or stay till the fire 
is lighted ?” 

“I think I have sufficiently warmed myself,” answered the 
lady; “so, if you please, I will go now; I am afraid I have kept 
people, and particularly that gentleman (meaning Partridge), 
too long in the cold already. Indeed, I cannot bear to think of 
keeping any person from the fire this dreadful weather.” She 
then departed with her maid, the landlady marching with two 
lighted candles before her. 

The lady had no sooner laid herself on her pillow than the 
waiting-woman returned to the kitchen to regale with some of 
those dainties which her mistress had refused. 

The company, at her entrance, shewed her the same respect 
which they had before paid to her mistress, by rising; but she 
forgot to imitate her, by desiring them to sit down again. In- 
deed, it was scarce possible they should have done so, for she 
placed her chair in such a posture as to occupy almost the whole 
fire. She then ordered a chicken to be broiled that instant, 


228 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


declaring, if it was net ready in a quarter of an hour, she would 
not stay for it. Now, though the said chicken was then at roost 
in the stable, and required the several ceremonies of catching, 
killing, and picking, before it was brought to the gridiron, my 
landlady would nevertheless have undertaken to do all within 
the time ; but the guest, being unfortunately admitted 
behind the scenes, must have been witness to the fourberie; the 
poor woman was therefore obliged to confess that she had none 
in the house; “but, madam,” said she, “I can get any kind of 
mutton in an instant from the butcher’s.” 

“Do you think, then,” answered the waiting-gentlewoman, 
“that I have the stomach of a horse, to eat mutton at this time 
of night?” 

“Why, truly, madam,” answered the landlady, “you could not 
take me again at such a disadvantage; for I must confess I 
have nothing in the house, unless a cold piece of beef, which in- 
deed a gentleman’s footman and the post-boy have almost cleared 
to the bone.” 

“Woman,” said Mrs Abigail (so for shortness we will call 
her), “I entreat you not to make me sick. If I had fasted a 
month, I could not eat what had been touched by the fingers 
of such fellows. Is there nothing neat or decent to be had in 
this horrid place?” 

“What think you of some eggs and bacon, madam?” said the 
landlady. 

“Are your eggs new laid? are you certain they were laid to- 
day? and let me have the bacon cut very nice and thin; for I 
can’t endure anything that’s gross. — Prithee try if you can do 
a little tolerably for once, and don’t think you have a farmer’s 
wife, or some of those creatures, in the house.” 

While the supper was preparing, Mrs Abigail began to lament 
she had not ordered a fire in the parlour ; but, she said, that was 
now too late. 

“However,” said she, “I have novelty to recommend a 
kitchen ; for I do not believe I ever eat in one before.” Then, 
turning to the post-boys, she asked them, why they were not in 
the stable with their horses? “If I must eat my hard fare here, 
madam,” cries she to the landlady, “I beg the kitchen may be 
kept clear, that I may not be surrounded with all the black- 
guards in town: as for you, sir,” says she to Partridge, “you look 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. , 


229 


somewhat like a gentleman, and may sit still if you please; I 
don’t desire to disturb anybody but mob.” 

“Yes, yes, madam,” cries Partridge, “I am a gentleman, I do 
assure you, and I am not so easily to be disturbed.” 

The supper being now on the table, Mrs Abigail eat very 
heartily for so delicate a person; and, while a second course of 
the same was by her order preparing, she said, “And so, madam, 
you say your house is frequented by people of great quality?” 

The landlady answered in the affirmative, saying, “There 
are a great many very good quality and gentlefolks in it now. 
There’s young Squire Allworthy, as that gentleman there 
knows.” 

“And pray who is this young gentleman of quality, this young 
Squire Allworthy?” said Abigail. 

“Who should he be,” answered Partridge, “but the son and 
heir of the great Squire Allworthy, of Somersetshire!” 

“Upon my word,” said she, “you tell me strange news; for 
I know Mr All worthy of Somersetshire very well, and I know 
he hath no son alive.” 

The landlady pricked up her ears at this, and Partridge looked 
a little confounded. However, after a short hesitation, he 
answered, “Indeed, madam, it is true, everybody doth not know 
him to be Squire Allworthy’s son ; for he was never married to 
his mother; but his son he certainly is, and will be his heir too, 
as certainly as his name is Jones.” 

At that word, Abigail let drop the* bacon which she was con- 
veying to her mouth, and cried out, “You surprize me, sir! Is 
it possible Mr Jones should be now in the house?” 

“Quare nonV* answered Partridge, “it is possible, and it is 
certain.” 

Abigail now made haste to finish the remainder of her meal, 
and then repaired back to her mistress, and running directly 
to the bed, cried, “Madam — madam — who doth your ladyship 
think is in this house?” 

Sophia (for it was she herself), starting up, cried, “I hope 
my father hath not overtaken us.” 

“No, madam, it is one worth a hundred fathers; Mr Jones 
himself is here at this very instant.” 

“Mr Jones!” says Sophia, “it is impossible! I cannot be so 
fortunate.” 

Her maid averred the fact, and wa„ presently detached by her 


230 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


mistress to order him to be called ; for she said she was resolved 
to see him immediately. 

Mrs Honour hastened back to the kitchen and discharged her 
commission, by bidding the landlady immediately wake Mr 
Jones, and tell him a lady wanted to speak with him. The 
landlady referred her to Partridge, saying, he was the squire’s 
friend: but, for her part, she never called men-folks, especially 
gentlemen, and then walked sullenly out of the kitchen. Honour 
applied herself to Partridge; but he refused, “for my friend,” 
cries he, “went to bed very late, and he would be very angry 
to be disturbed so soon.” 

Mrs Honour insisted still to have him called, saying, she 
w T as sure, instead of being angry, that he would be to the highest 
degree delighted when he knew the occasion. 

“Another time, perhaps, he might,” cries Partridge; “but non 
omnia possumus omnes. One woman is enough at once for a 
reasonable man.” 

“What do you mean by one woman, fellow?” cries Honour. 

“None of your fellow,” answered Partridge. He then pro- 
ceeded to inform her plainly that Jones was in bed with 
a wench, and made use of an expression too indelicate to be 
here inserted; which so enraged Mrs Honour, that she called 
him jackanapes, and returned in a violent hurry to her mistress, 
whom she acquainted with the success of her errand, and with 
the account she had received ; which, if possible, she exagger- 
ated, being as angry with Jones as if he had pronounced all 
the words that came from the mouth of Partridge. She dis- 
charged a torrent of abuse on the master, and advised her mis- 
tress to quit all thoughts of a man who had never shown him- 
self deserving of her. She then ripped up the story of Molly 
Seagrim, and gave the most malicious turn to his formerly 
quitting Sophia herself ; which, I must confess, the present inci- 
dent not a little countenanced. 

The spirits of Sophia were too much dissipated by 9oncern 
to enable her to stop the torrent of her maid. At last, how- 
ever, she interrupted her, saying, “I never can believe this; 
some villain hath belied him. You say you had it from his 
friend ; but surely it is not the office of a friend to betray such 
secrets.” 

“I suppose,” cries Honour, “the fellow is his pimp; for I 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


231 

never saw so ill-looked a villain. Besides, such profligate rakes 
as Mr Jones are never ashamed of these matters.” 

While Sophia, tormented with anxiety, knew not what to 
believe, nor what resolution to take, Susan arrived with the 
sack-whey. Mrs Honour immediately advised her mistress, in 
a whisper, to pump this wench, who probably could inform her 
of the truth. Sophia approved it, and began as follows: 

“Come hither, child; now answer me truly what I am going 
to ask you, and I promise you I will very well reward you. Is 
there a young gentleman in this house, a handsome young 
gentleman, that .” Here Sophia blushed and was con- 

founded. 

“A young gentleman,” cries Honour, “that came hither in 
company with that saucy rascal who is now in the kitchen ?” 

Susan answered, there was. 

“Do you know anything of afiy lady?” continues Sophia, “any - " 
lady? I don’t ask you whether she is handsome or no; per- 
haps she is not ; that’s nothing to the purpose ; but do you know 
of any lady?” 

“La, madam,” cries Honour, “you will make a very bad ex- 
aminer. Hark’ee, child,” says she, “is not that very young gen- 
tleman now in bed with some nasty trull or other?” 

Here Susan smiled, and was silent. 

“Answer the question, child,” says Sophia, “and here’s a 
guinea for you.” 

“A guinea! madam,’’ cries Susan; “la, what’s a guinea? If 
my mistress should know it I shall certainly lose my place that 
very instant.” 

“Here’s another for you,” says Sophia, “and I promise you 
faithfully your mistress shall never know it.” 

Susan, after a short hesitation, took the money, and told the 
whole story, concluding with saying, “If you have any great 
curiosity, madam, I can steal softly into his room, and see 
whether he be in his own bed or no.” She accordingly did this 
by Sophia’s desire, and returned with an answer in the negative. 

Sophia now trembled and turned pale. Mrs Honour begged 
her to be comforted, and not to think any more of so worthless 
a fellow. 

“Why there,” says Susan, “I hope, madam, your ladyship 
won’t be offended ; but pray, madam, is not your ladyship’s name 
Madam Sophia Western?” 


232 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“How is it possible you should know me?” answered Sophia. 

“Why that man, that the gentlewoman spoke of, who is in 
the kitchen, told about you last night. But I hope your lady- 
ship is not angry with me.” 

“Indeed, child,” said she, “I am not; pray tell me all, and I 
promise you I’ll reward you.” 

“Why, madam,” continued Susan, “that man told us all in 
the kitchen that Madam Sophia Western — indeed I don’t know 
how to bring it out.” — Here she stopt, till, having received en- 
couragement from Sophia, and being vehemently pressed by 
Mrs Honour, she proceeded thus: — “He told us, madam, though 
to be sure it is all a lie, that your ladyship was dying for love 
of the young squire, and that he was going to the wars to get 
rid of you. I thought to myself then he was a false-hearted 
wretch ; but, now, to see such a fine, rich, beautiful lady as you 
be, forsaken for such an ordinary woman; for to be sure so she 
is, and another man’s wife into the bargain. It is such a 
strange unnatural thing, in a manner.” 

Sophia gave her a third guinea, and, telling her she would 
certainly be her friend if she mentioned nothing of what had 
passed, nor informed any one who she was, dismissed the girl, 
with orders to the post-boy to get the horses ready immediately. 

Being now left alone with her maid, she told her trusty w r ait- 
ing-woman, that she never was more easy than at present. 

“I am now convinced,” said she, “he is not only a villain, but a 
low despicable wretch. I can forgive all rather than his expos- 
ing my name in so barbarous a manner. That renders him the 
object of my contempt. Yes, Honour, I am now easy; I am 
indeed; I am very easy;” and then she burst into a violent 
flood of tears. 

After a short interval spent by Sophia, chiefly in crying, and 
assuring her maid that she was perfectly easy, Susan arrived with 
an account that the horses were ready, when a very extraordinary 
thought suggested itself to our young heroine, by which Mr 
Jones would be acquainted with her having been at the inn, in a 
way which, if any sparks of affection for her remained in him, 
would be at least some punishment for his faults. 

The reader will be pleased to remember a little muff, which 
hath had the honour of being more than once remembered al- 
ready in this history. This muff, ever since the departure of Mr 
Jones, had been the constant companion of Sophia by day, and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


233 


her bedfellow by night; and this muff she had at this very in- 
stant upon her arm ; whence she took it off with great indig- 
nation, and, having writ her name with her pencil upon a piece 
of paper which she pinned to it, she bribed the maid to convey it 
into the empty bed of Mr Jones, in which, if he did not find it, 
she charged her to take some method of conveying it before his 
eyes in the morning. 

Then, having paid for what Mrs Honour had eaten, in which 
bill was included an account for what she herself might have 
eaten, she mounted her horse, and, once more assuring her com- 
panion that she was perfectly easy, continued her journey. 

When Mr Jones returned to his own bed, he summoned Par- 
tridge, who, after a ceremonious preface, having obtained leave 
to offer his advice, delivered himself as follows : — 

“It is, sir, an old saying, and a true one, that a wise man may 
sometimes learn counsel from a fool ; I wish, therefore, I might 
be so bold as to offer you my advice, which is to return home 
again, and leave these horrida bella , these bloody wars, to fel- 
lows who are contented to swallow gunpowder, because they 
have nothing else to eat. Now, everybody knows your honour 
wants for nothing at home; when that’s the case, why should 
any man travel abroad?” 

“Partridge,” cries Jones, “thou art certainly a coward ; I 
wish, therefore, thou wouldst return home thyself, and trouble 
me no more.” 

“I ask your honour’s pardon,” cries Partridge; “I spoke on 
your account more than my own; for as to me, Heaven knows 
my circumstances are bad enough, and I am so far from being 
afraid, that I value a pistol, or a blunderbuss, or any such thing, 
no more than a pop-gun. Every man must die once, and what 
signifies the manner how ? besides, perhaps I may come off with 
the loss only of an arm or a leg. I assure you, sir, I was never 
less afraid in my life ; and so, if your honour is resolved to go on, 
I am resolved to follow you. But, in that case, I wish I might 
give my opinion. To be sure, it is a scandalous way of travel- 
ling, for a great gentleman like you to walk afoot. Now here 
are two or three good horses in the stable, which the landlord 
will certainly make no scruple of trusting you with; but, if he 
should, I can easily contrive to take them; and, let the worst 
come to the worst, the king would certainly pardon you, as you 
are going to fight in his cause.” 


234 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


When Mr Jones found that Partridge was in earnest in this 
proposal, he very severely rebuked him, and that in such bitter 
terms, that the other attempted to laugh’ it off, and presently 
turned the discourse to other matters; saying, he believed they 
were then in a bawdy house, and that he had with much ado 
prevented two wenches from disturbing his honour in the mid- 
dle of the night. 

“Heyday!” says he, “I believe they got into your chamber 
whether I would or no; for here lies the muff of one of them on 
the ground.” 

Indeed, as Jones returned to his bed in the dark, he had never 
perceived the muff on the quilt, and, in leaping into his bed, he 
had tumbled it on the floor. This Partridge now took up, and 
was going to put into his pocket, when Jones desired to see it. 
The muff was so very remarkable, that our hero might pos- 
sibly have recollected it without the information annexed. But 
his memory was not put to that hard office; for at the same in- 
stant he saw and read the words Sophia Western upon the paper 
which was pinned to it. His looks now grew frantic in a mo- 
ment, and he eagerly cried out, “Oh Heavens! how came this 
muff here?” 

“I know no more than your honour,” cried Partridge; “but I 
saw it upon the arm of one of the women who would have dis- 
turbed you, if I would have suffered them.” 

“Where are they?” cries Jones, jumping out of bed, and 
laying hold of his clothes. 

“Many miles off, I believe, by this time,” said Partridge. 
And now Jones, upon further enquiry, was sufficiently assured 
that the bearer of this muff was no other than the lovely Sophia 
herself. 

The behaviour of Jones on this occasion, his thoughts, his 
looks, his words, his actions, were such as beggar all description. 
After many bitter execrations on Partridge, and not fewer on 
himself, he ordered the poor fellow, who was frightened out of 
his wits, to run down and hire him horses at any rate; and a 
very few minutes afterwards, having shuffled on his clothes, he 
hastened down-stairs to execute the orders himself, which he 
had just before given. 

But before we proceed to what passed on his arrival in the 
kitchen, it will be necessary to recur to what had there hap- 
pened since Partridge had first left it on his master’s summons. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


235 


The serjeant was just marched off with his party, when the 
two Irish gentlemen arose, and came down-stairs; both com- 
plaining that they had been so often waked by the noises in the 
inn, that they had never once been able to close their eyes all 
night. 

The coach which had brought the young lady and her maid, 
and which, perhaps, the reader may have hitherto concluded was 
her own, was, indeed, a returned coach belonging to Mr King, 
of Bath. The coachman, having but two passengers, and hearing 
Mr Maclachlan was going to Bath, offered to carry him thither 
at a very moderate price. Mr Maclachlan immediately closed 
with the proposal of the coachman, and, at the same time, per- 
suaded his friend Fitzpatrick to accept of the fourth place in 
the coach. This conveyance the soreness of his bones made 
more agreeable to him than a horse; and, being well assured 
of meeting with his wife at Bath, he thought a little delay would 
be of no consequence. 

Maclachlan, who was much the sharper man of the two, no 
sooner heard that this lady came from Chester, with the other 
circumstances which he learned from the hostler, than it came 
into his head that she might possibly be his friend’s wife; and 
presently acquainted him with this suspicion, which had never 
once occurred to Fitzpatrick himself. 

The very moment Mr Maclachlan had mentioned his appre- 
hension, Mr Fitzpatrick instantly concurred, and flew directly 
up-stairs, to surprize his wife, before he knew where she was; 
and unluckily (as Fortune loves to play tricks with those gen- 
tlemen w T ho put themselves entirely under her conduct) ran his 
head against several doors and posts to no purpose. So, after a 
long fruitless search, he returned to the kitchen, where, as if this 
had been a real chace, entered a gentleman hallowing as hunt- 
’ers do when the hounds are at a fault. He was just alighted 
from his horse, and had many attendants at his heels. This gen- 
tleman was no other person than Squire Western himself, who 
was come hither in pursuit of his daughter ; and, had he fortu- 
nately been two hours earlier, he had not only found her, but his 
niece into the bargain ; for such was the wife of Mr Fitzpatrick, 
who had run away with her five years before, out of the custody 
of that sage lady, Madam Western. 

Now this lady had departed from the inn much about the 
same time with Sophia; for, having been waked by the voice of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


236 

her husband, she had sent up for the landlady, and being by her 
apprized of the matter, had bribed the good woman, at an ex- 
travagant price, to furnish her with horses for her escape. 

Mr Western and his nephew were not known to one another; 
nor indeed would the former have taken any notice of the latter 
if he had known him ; for, this being a stolen match, and conse- 
quently an unnatural one in the opinion of the good squire, he 
had, from the time of her committing it, abandoned the poor 
young creature, who was then no more than eighteen, as a 
monster, and had never since suffered her to be named in his 
presence. 

The kitchen was now a scene of universal confusion, Western 
enquiring after his daughter, and Fitzpatrick as eagerly after his 
wife, when Jones entered the room, unfortunately having 
Sophia’s muff in his hand. 

As soon as Western saw Jones, he set up the same holla as is 
used by sportsmen when their game is in view. He then im- 
mediately ran up and laid hold of Jones, crying, “We have got 
the dog fox, I warrant the bitch is not far off.” The jargon 
which followed for some minutes, where many spoke different 
things at the same time, as it would be very difficult to describe, 
so would it be no less unpleasant to read. 

Jones having, at length, shaken Mr Western off, and some of 
the company having interfered between them, our hero protested 
his innocence as to knowing anything of the lady; when Parson 
Supple stepped up, and said, “It is folly to deny it; for why, the 
marks of guilt are in thy hands. I will myself asseverate and 
bind it by an oath, that the muff thou bearest in thy hand be- 
longeth unto Madam Sophia; for I have frequently observed 
her, of later days, to bear it about her.” 

“My daughter’s muff!” cries the squire in a rage. “Hath 
he got my daughter’s muff? bear witness the goods are found 
upon him. I’ll have him before a justice of peace this instant. 
Where is my daughter, villain?” 

“Sir,” said Jones, “I beg you would be pacified. The muff, I 
acknowledge, is the young lady’s ; but, upon my honour, I have 
never seen her.” 

At these words Western lost all patience, and grew inarticu- 
late with rage. 

Some of the servants had acquainted Fitzpatrick who Mr 
Western was. The good Irishman, therefore, thinking he had 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


237 


now an opportunity to do an act of service to his uncle, and by 
that means might possibly obtain his favour, stept up to Jones, 
and cried out, “Upon my conscience, sir, you may be ashamed of 
denying your having seen the gentleman’s daughter before my 
face, when you know I found you there upon the bed together.” 

Then, turning to Western, he offered to conduct him imme- 
diately to the room where his daughter was; which offer being 
accepted, he, the squire, the parson, and some others, ascended 
directly to Mrs Waters’s chamber, which they entered with no 
less violence than Mr Fitzpatrick had done before. 

The poor lady started from her sleep with as much amaze- 
ment as terror, and beheld at her bedside a figure which might 
very well be supposed to have escaped out of Bedlam. Such wild- 
ness and confusion were in the looks of Mr Western; who no 
sooner saw the lady than he started back, shewing sufficiently 
* by his manner, before he spoke, that this was not the person 
sought after. 

So much more tenderly do women value their reputation than 
their persons, that, though the latter seemed now in more danger 
than before, yet, as the former was secure, the lady screamed not 
with such violence as she had done on the other occasion. How- 
ever, she no sooner found herself alone than she abandoned all 
thoughts of further repose; and, as she had sufficient reason to 
be dissatisfied with her present lodging, she dressed herself with 
all possible expedition. 

Mr Western now proceeded to search the whole house, but to 
as little purpose as he had disturbed poor Mrs Waters. He then 
returned disconsolate into the kitchen, where he found Jones 
in the custody of his servants. 

This violent uproar had raised all the people in the house, 
though it was yet scarcely daylight. Among these was a grave 
gentleman, who had the honour to be in the commission of the 
peace for the county of Worcester. Of which Mr Western 
was no sooner informed than he offered to lay his complaint be- 
fore him. The justice declined executing his office, as he said 
he had no clerk present, nor no book about justice business; and 
that he could not carry all the law in his head about stealing 
away daughters, and such sort of things. 

Here Mr Fitzpatrick offered to lend him his assistance,' in- 
forming the company that he had been himself bred to the law. 
He declared that the law concerning daughters was out of the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


238 

present case; that stealing a muff was undoubtedly felony, and 
the goods being found upon the person, were sufficient evidence 
of the fact. 

The magistrate, upon the encouragement of so learned a co- 
adjutor, and upon the violent intercession of the squire, was at 
length prevailed upon to seat himself in the chair of justice, 
where being placed, upon viewing the muff which Jones still 
held in his hand, and upon the parson’s swearing it to be the 
property of Mr Western, he desired Mr Fitzpatrick to draw up 
a commitment, which he said he would sign. 

Jones now desired to be heard, which was at last, with dif- 
ficulty, granted him. He then produced the evidence of Mr 
Partridge, as to the finding it; but, what was still more, Susan 
deposed that Sophia herself had delivered the muff to her, and 
had ordered her to convey it into the chamber where Mr Jones 
had found it. 

Whether a natural love of justice, or the extraordinary come- 
liness of Jones, had wrought on Susan to make the discovery, 
I will not determine ; but such were the effects of her evidence, 
that the magistrate, throwing himself back in his chair, de- 
clared that the matter was now altogether as clear on the side 
of the prisoner as it had before been against him: with which 
the parson concurred, saying, the Lord forbid he should be in- 
strumental in committing an innocent person to durance. The 
justice then arose, acquitted the prisoner, and broke up the court. 

Mr Western now gave every one present a hearty curse, and, 
immediately ordering his horses, departed in pursuit of his daugh- 
ter, without taking the least notice of his nephew Fitzpatrick, or 
returning any answer to his claim of kindred, notwithstanding 
all the obligations he had just received from that gentleman. In 
the violence, moreover, of his hurry, and of his passion, he 
luckily forgot to demand the muff of Jones: I say luckily; for he 
would have died on the spot rather than have parted with it. 

Jones likewise, with his friend Partridge, set forward the 
moment he had paid his reckoning, in quest of his lovely Sophia, 
whom he now resolved never more to abandon the pursuit of. 
Nor could he bring himself even to take leave of Mrs Waters; 
of whom he detested the very thoughts, as she had been, though 
not designedly, the occasion of his missing the happiest interview 
with Sophia, to whom he now vowed eternal constancy. 

As for Mrs Waters, she took the opportunity of the coach 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


~39 


which was going to Bath; for which place she set out in com- 
pany with the two Irish gentlemen, the landlady kindly lending 
her her clothes; in return for which she was contented only to 
receive about double their value, as a recompense for the loan. 
Upon the road she was perfectly reconciled to Mr Fitzpatrick, 
who was a very handsome fellow, and indeed did all she could 
to console him in the absence of his wife. 

Thus ended the many odd adventures which Mr Jones en- 
countered at his inn at Upton, where they talk, to this day, of the 
beauty and lovely behaviour of the charming Sophia, by the name 
of the Somersetshire angel. 


CHAPTER XXL 


In which the history goes backward and records the escape of 
Sophia. 

JgEFORE we proceed any farther in our history, it may be 
proper to look a little back, in order to account for the 
extraordinary appearance of Sophia and her father at the inn at 
Upton. 

The reader may be pleased to remember that we left Sophia, 
after a long debate between love and duty, deciding the cause, 
as it usually, I believe, happens, in favour of the former. 

This debate had arisen, as we have before shown, from a visit 
which her father had just before made her, in order to force her 
consent to a marriage with Blifil ; and which he had understood 
to be fully implied in her acknowledgment that she neither must 
nor could refuse any absolute command of his. 

Now from this visit the squire retired to his evening potation, 
overjoyed at the success he had gained with his daughter; and, 
as he was of a social disposition, and willing to have partakers 
in his happiness, the beer was ordered to flow very liberally into 
the kitchen ; so that before eleven in the evening there was not 
a single person sober in the house except only Mrs Western her- 
self and the charming Sophia. 

Early in the morning a messenger was despatched to summon 
Mr Blifil; for, though the squire imagined that young gentleman 
had been much less acquainted than he really was with the for- 
mer aversion of his daughter, as he had not, however, yet re- 
ceived her consent, he longed impatiently to communicate it to 
him, not doubting but that the intended bride herself would 
confirm it with her lips. As to the wedding, it had the evening 
before been fixed, by the male parties, to be celebrated on the 
next morning save one. 

Breakfast was now set forth in the parlour, where Mr Bli- 
fil attended, and where the squire and his sister likewise were as- 
sembled ; and now Sophia was ordered to be called. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


241 


O, Shakespear! had I thy pen! O, Hogarth! had I thy pencil! 
then would I draw the picture of the poor serving-man, who, 
with pale countenance, staring eyes, chattering teeth, faltering 
tongue, and trembling limbs, entered the room, and declared 
that Madam Sophia was not to be found. 

“Not to be found!” cries the squire, starting from his chair; 
“Zounds and d — nation ! Blood and fury ! Where, when, how, 
what — Not to be found ! Where?” 

“La! brother,” said Mrs Western, with true political coldness, 
“you are always throwing yourself into such violent passions 
for nothing. My niece, I suppose, is only walked out into the 
garden. I protest you are grown so unreasonable, that it is im- 
possible to live in the house with you.” 

“Nay, nay,” answered the squire, returning as suddenly to 
himself, as he had gone from himself ; “if that be all the matter, 
it signifies not much; but, upon my soul, my mind misgave me 
when the fellow said she was not to be found.” He then gave 
orders for the bell to be rung in the garden, and sat himself con- 
tentedly down. But soon the same report was brought from the 
garden as before had been brought from the chamber, that 
Madam Sophia was not to be found. 

The squire himself now sallied forth, and began to roar forth 
the name of Sophia as loudly, and in as hoarse a voice, as whi- 
lome did Hercules that of Hylas; and, as the poet tells us that 
the whole shore echoed back the name of that beautiful youth, 
so did the house, the garden, and all the neighbouring fields 
resound nothing but the name of Sophia, in the hoarse voices 
of the men, and in the shrill pipes of the women; while echo 
seemed so pleased to repeat the beloved sound, that, if there is 
really such a person, I believe Ovid hath belied her sex. 

Nothing reigned for a long time but confusion; till at last 
the squire, having sufficiently spent his breath, returned to the 
parlour, where he found Mrs Western and Mr Blifil, and threw 
himself, with the utmost dejection in his countenance, into a 
great chair, while his sister proceeded to administer consolation 
of a very acid kind. 

As for our heroine, at the pre-arranged hour of midnight, 
she had softly stole down-stairs, and having unbarred and un- 
locked one of the house-doors, sallied forth and hastened to the 
place of appointment, where she met a messenger who conveyed 
her safe to Mrs Honour at a town about five miles distant. 


242 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


They now debated what course to take, in order to avoid the 
pursuit of Mr Western, who they knew would send after them 
in a few hours. The London road had such charms for Hon- 
our, that she was desirous of going on directly; but Sophia had 
too much at stake to venture anything to chance. She resolved, 
therefore, to travel across the country, for at least twenty or 
thirty miles, and then to take the direct road to London. So, 
„ having hired horses to go twenty miles one way, when she in- 
tended to go twenty miles the other, she set forward. 

When they had gone about two hundred paces from the inn 
on the London road, Sophia rode up to the guide, and, with a 
voice much fuller of honey than was ever that of Plato, though 
his mouth is supposed to have been a bee-hive, begged him to 
take the first turning which led towards Bristol. 

He answered somewhat surlily, that measter had ordered him 
to go a different way, and that he should lose his place if he 
went any other than that he was ordered. 

Sophia, finding all her persuasions had no effect, began now 
to add irresistible charms to her voice; and promised she would 
reward him to his utmost expectation. The lad was not totally 
deaf to these promises; but he disliked their being indefinite. 
He said, gentlevolks did not consider the case of poor volks; 
that he had like to have been turned away the other day, for 
riding about the country with a gentleman from Squire All- 
worthy’s, who did not reward him as he should have done. 

“With whom?” says Sophia eagerly. 

“With a gentleman from Squire Allworthy’s,” repeated the 
lad ; “the squire’s son, I think they call ’un.” 

“Whither? which way did he go?” says Sophia. 

“Why, a little o’ one side o’ Bristol, about twenty miles off,” 
answered the lad. 

“Guide me,” says Sophia, “to the same place, and I’ll give 
thee a guinea, or two, if one is not sufficient.” 

“To be certain,” said the boy, “it is honestly worth two, 
when your ladyship considers what a risk I run ; but, however, 
if your ladyship will promise me the two guineas, I’ll e’en 
venture: to be certain it is a sinful thing to ride about my 
measter’s horses ; but one comfort is, I can only be turned away, 
and two guineas will make me amends.” 

The bargain being thus struck, the lad turned aside into the 
Bristol road, and Sophia set forward in pursuit of Jones, highly 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


243 

contrary to the remonstrances of Mrs Honour, who had much 
more desire to see London than to see Mr Jones. 

Our travellers arrived at Hambrook* at the break of day, 
where Honour was against her will charged to enquire the route 
which Mr Jones had taken. When she had made her report 
from the landlord, Sophia, with much difficulty, procured 
some indifferent horses, which brought her to the inn where 
Jones had been confined rather by the misfortune of meeting 
with a surgeon than by having met with a broken head. 

Here Honour, being again charged with a commission of 
enquiry, had no sooner applied herself to the landlady, and had 
described the person of Mr Jones, than that sagacious woman 
began, in the vulgar phrase, to smell a rat. When Sophia there- 
fore entered the room, instead of answering the maid, the land- 
lady, addressing herself to the mistress, began the following 
speech : 

“Good lack-a-day! why there now, who would have thought 
it? I protest the loveliest couple that ever eye beheld. X-fack- 
ins, madam, it is no wonder the squire run on so about your 
ladyship. He told me indeed you was the finest lady in the 
world, and to be sure so you be. Mercy on him, poor heart! 
I bepitied him, so X did, when he used to hug his pillow, and 
call it his dear Madam Sophia. I did all I could to dissuade 
him from going to the wars; I told him there were men enow 
that were good for nothing else but to be killed, that had not 
the love of such fine ladies.” 

“Sure,” says Sophia, “the good woman is distracted.” 

“No, no,” cries the landlady, “I am not distracted. What, 
doth your ladyship think I don’t know then? I assure you he 
told me all.” 

“What saucy fellow,” cries Honour, “told you anything of 
my lady?” 

“No saucy fellow,” answered the landlady, “but the young 
gentleman you enquired after, and a very pretty young gentle- 
man he is, and he loves Madam Sophia Western to the bottom 
of his soul.” 

“He love my lady! I’d have you to know, woman, she is 
meat for his master.” 

“Nay, Honour,” said Sophia, interrupting her, “don’t be 
angry with the good woman ; she intends no harm.” 

♦This was the village where Jones met the Quaker. 


244 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

“No, marry, don’t I,” answered the landlady, emboldened by 
the soft accents of Sophia; and then launched into a long nar- 
rative too tedious to be here set down, in which some passages 1 
dropt that gave a little offence to Sophia, and much more to 
her waiting-woman, who hence took occasion to abuse poor 
Jones to her mistress the moment they were alone together, 
saying, that he must be a very pitiful fellow, and could have no 1 
love for a lady, whose name he would thus prostitute in an ale- 
house. ,, * i 

Sophia did not see his behaviour in so very disadvantageous a 
light, and was perhaps more pleased with the violent raptures ! 
of his love (which the landlady exaggerated as much as she had ; 
done every other circumstance) than she was offended with the 
rest; and indeed she imputed the whole to the extravagance, or 
rather ebullience, of his passion, and to the openness of his heart. 

This incident, however, being afterwards revived in her mind, 
and placed in the most odious colours by Honour, served to 
heighten and give credit to those unlucky occurrences at Up- 
ton, and assisted the waiting-woman in her endeavours to make 
her mistress depart from that inn without seeing Jones. 

The landlady finding Sophia intended to stay no longer than 
till her horses were ready, and that without either eating or 
drinking, soon withdrew; when Honour began to take her mis- 
tress to task (for indeed she used great freedom), and after a 
long harangue, in which she reminded her of her intention to 
go to London, and gave frequent hints of the impropriety of 
pursuing a young fellow, she at last concluded with this serious 
exhortation: “For heaven’s sake, madam, consider what you 
are about, and whither you are going.” 

This advice to a lady who had already rode near forty miles, 
and in no very agreeable season, may seem foolish enough. It 
may be supposed she had well considered and resolved this al- 
ready; nay, Mrs Honour, by the hints she threw out, seemed 
to think so ; and this I doubt not is the opinion of many readers, 
who have, I make no doubt, been long since well convinced of 
the purpose of our heroine, and have heartily condemned her 
for it as a wanton baggage. 

But in reality this was not the case. Sophia had been lately 
so distracted between hope and fear, her duty and love to her 
father, her hatred to Blifil, her compassion, and (why should we 
not confess the truth?) her love for Jones; which last the be- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


245 


haviour of her father, of her aunt, of every one else, and more 
particularly of Jones himself, had blown into a flame, that her 
mind was in that confused state which may be truly said to make 
us ignorant of what we do, or whither we go, or rather, in- 
different as to the consequence of either. 

The prudent and sage advice of her maid produced, however, 
some cool reflection ; and she at length determined to go to 
Gloucester, and thence to proceed directly to London. 

But, unluckily, a few miles before she entere^that town, she 
met the hack-attorney, who, as is before mentioned, had dined 
there with Mr Jones. This fellow, being well known to Mrs 
Honour, stopt and spoke to her; of which Sophia at that time 
took little notice, more than to enquire who he was. 

But, having had a more particular account from Honour of 
this man afterwards at Gloucester, and hearing of the great ex- 
pedition he usually made in travelling, for which (as hath been 
before observed) he was particularly famous; recollecting, like- 
wise, that she had overheard Mrs Honour inform him that 
they were going to Gloucester, she began to fear lest her father 
might, by this fellow’s means, be able to trace her to that city ; 
wherefore, if she should there strike into the London road, she 
apprehended he would certainly be able to overtake her. She 
therefore altered her resolution ; and, having hired horses to 
go a week’s journey a way which she did not intend to travel, 
she again set forward after a light refreshment, contrary to the 
desire and earnest entreaties of her maid, and to the no less 
vehement remonstrances of Mrs Whitefield, who, from good 
breeding, or perhaps from good nature (for the poor young lady 
appeared much fatigued), pressed her very heartily to stay that 
evening at Gloucester. 

Having refreshed herself only with some tea, and with lying 
about two hours on the bed, while her horses were getting ready, 
she resolutely left Mrs Whitefield’s about eleven at night, and, 
striking directly into the Worcester road, within less than four 
hours arrived at that very inn where we last saw her. 

Having thus traced our heroine very particularly back from 
her departure, till her arrival at Upton, we shall in very few 
words bring her father to the same place; who, having received 
the first scent from the post-boy, who conducted his daughter to 
Hambrook, very easily traced her afterwards to Gloucester; 
whence he pursued her to Upton, as he had learned Mr Jones 


246 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

had taken that route (for Partridge, to use the squire’s expres- 
sion, left everywhere a strong scent behind him), and he doubted 
not in the least but Sophia travelled, or, as he phrased it, ran, 
the same way. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The adventures which Sophia met with after her leaving Upton, 

QUR history, just before it was obliged to turn about and 
travel backwards, had mentioned the departure of Sophia 
and her maid from the inn; we shall now therefore pursue the 
steps of that lovely creature, and leave her unworthy lover a 
little longer to bemoan his ill-luck, or rather his ill-conduct. 

Sophia having directed her guide to travel through bye-roads, 
across the country, they now passed the Severn, and had scarce 
got a mile from the inn, when the young lady, looking behind 
her, saw several horses coming after on full speed. This greatly 
alarmed her fears, and she called to the guide to put on as fast 
as possible. 

He immediately obeyed her, and away they rode a full 
gallop. But the faster they went, the faster were they followed ; 
and as the horses behind were somewhat swifter than those be- 
fore, so the former were at length overtaken. A happy circum- 
stance for poor Sophia; whose fears, joined to her fatigue, had 
almost overpowered her spirits; but she was now instantly re- 
lieved by a female voice, that greeted her in the softest manner, 
and with the utmost civility. This greeting Sophia, as soon 
as she could recover her breath, with like civility, and with the 
highest satisfaction to herself, returned. 

The travellers who had joined Sophia, and who had given her 
such terror, consisted, like her own company, of two females 
and a guide. The two parties proceeded three full miles to- 
gether before any one offered again to open their mouths ; when 
our heroine, having pretty well got the better of her fear (but 
yet being somewhat surprized that the other still continued to 
attend her, as she pursued no great road, and had already passed 
through several turnings), accosted the strange lady in a most 
obliging tone, and said, she was very happy to find they were 
both travelling the same way. 

The other, who, like a ghost, only wanted to be spoke to, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


248 

readily answered, that the happiness was entirely hers; that she 
was a perfect stranger in that country, and was so overjoyed at 
meeting a companion of her own sex, that she had perhaps been 
guilty of an impertinence, which required great apology, in keep- 
ing pace with her. 

The strange lady now laboured under a difficulty which ap- 
pears almost below the dignity of history to mention. Her 
bonnet had been blown from her head not less than five times 
within the last mile; nor could she come at any ribbon or 
handkerchief to tie it under her chin. When Sophia was in- 
formed of this, she immediately supplied her with a handker- 
chief for this purpose; which while she was pulling from her 
pocket, she perhaps too much neglected the management of her 
horse, for the beast, now unluckily making a false step, fell upon 
his fore-legs, and threw his fair rider from his back. Though 
Sophia came head foremost to the ground, she happily received 
not the least damage: and she was once more reinstated in her 
saddle, having received no other harm than a little fright by her 
fall. 

Daylight at length appeared in its full lustre; and now the 
two ladies, who were riding over a common side by side, looking 
stedfastly at each other, at the same moment both their eyes be- 
came fixed ; both their horses stopt, and, both speaking together, 
with equal joy pronounced, the one the name of Sophia, the other 
that of Harriet. 

This unexpected encounter surprized the ladies much more 
than I believe it will the sagacious reader, who must have im- 
agined that the strange lady could be no other than Mrs Fitz- 
patrick, the cousin of Miss Western, whom we before mentioned 
to have sallied from the inn a few minutes after her. 

So great was the surprize and joy which these two cousins con- 
ceived at this meeting (for they had formerly been most intimate 
acquaintance and friends, and had long lived together with their 
aunt Western), that it is impossible to recount half the congratu- 
lations which passed between them. Talking together, they 
travelled many hours, till they came into a wide and well-beaten 
road, which, as they turned to the right, soon brought them to a 
very fair-promising inn, where they all alighted. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick, learning from Honour that Sophia had not 
been in bed during the two last nights, and observing her to look 
very pale and wan with her fatigue, earnestly entreated her to re- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


249 


fresh herself with some sleep. Sophia was easily prevailed on to 
follow the counsel of her friend, which was heartily seconded 
by her maid. Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise offered to bear her 
cousin company, which Sophia, with much complacence, ac- 
cepted. 

The sun (for he keeps very good hours at this time of the 
year) had been some time retired to rest when Sophia arose 
greatly refreshed by her sleep; which, short as it was, nothing 
but her extreme fatigue could have occasioned ; for, though she 
had told her maid, and perhaps herself too, that she was per- 
fectly easy when she left Upton, yet it is certain her mind was 
a little affected with that malady which is attended with all 
the restless symptoms of a fever, and is perhaps the very dis- 
temper which physicians mean (if they mean anything) by the 
fever on the spirits. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick likewise left her bed at the same time; and, 
having summoned her maid, immediately dressed herself. She 
was really a very pretty woman, and, had she been in any other 
company but that of Sophia, might have been thought beauti- 
ful; but when Mrs Honour of her own accord attended (for 
her mistress would not suffer her to be waked), and had 
equipped our heroine, the charms of Mrs Fitzpatrick, who had 
performed the office of the morning-star, and had preceded 
greater glories, shared the fate of that star, and were totally 
eclipsed the moment those glories shone forth. 

Sophia had acquainted her cousin with her design to go to 
London; and Mrs Fitzpatrick had agreed to accompany her; 
for the arrival of her husband at Upton had put an end to her 
design of going to Bath, or to her aunt Western. They had 
therefore no sooner finished their tea than Sophia proposed to 
set out, the moon then shining extremely bright, and as for the 
frost she defied it. 

The disposition of Mrs Fitzpatrick was more timorous; for, 
though the greater terrors had conquered the less, and the pres- 
ence of her husband had driven her away at so unseasonable an 
hour from Upton, yet, being now arrived at a place where she 
thought herself safe from his pursuit, these lesser terrors of I 
know not what operated so strongly, that she earnestly entreated 
her cousin to stay till the next morning, and not expose herself 
to the dangers of travelling by night. 

Sophia, who was yielding to an excess, when she could neither 


250 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


laugh nor reason her cousin out of these apprehensions, at last 
gave way to them. Perhaps, indeed, had she known of her 
father’s arrival at Upton, it might have been more difficult to 
have persuaded her; for as to Jones, she had, I am afraid, no 
great horror at the thoughts of being overtaken by him; nay, 
to confess the truth, I believe she rather wished than feared it; 
thought I might honestly enough have concealed this wish from 
the reader, as it was one of those secret spontaneous emotions 
of the soul to which the reason is often a stranger. 

The two cousins began now to impart to each other their 
reciprocal curiosity to know what extraordinary accidents on 
both sides occasioned this so strange and unexpected meeting, 
and Mrs Fitzpatrick proceeded to relate her matrimonial woes 
and to recount the brutalities of her husband, which had 
forced her to flee from him. 

Sophia, then, in her turn, related her story, though, strangely 
enough, she made no more mention of Jones, from the beginning 
to the end, than if there had been no such person alive. Just 
as she arrived at the conclusion of her story, the landlord 
ascended, and acquainted our fair travellers that a great gentle- 
man below desired to do them the honour of waiting on them. 
Sophia turned pale and trembled at this message, though the 
reader will conclude it was too civil, to have come from her 
father. To ease the reader’s curiosity, therefore, rather than 
his apprehensions, we proceed to inform him that an Irish peer 
had arrived very late that evening at the inn, in his way to 
London. This nobleman had seen the attendant of Mrs Fitz- 
patrick, and upon a short enquiry, was informed that her lady, 
with whom he was very particularly acquainted, was above. 
This information he had no sooner received than he addressed 
himself to the landlord, and sent him up-stairs with compliments 
rather civiller than those which were delivered. 

Sophia was very soon eased of her causeless fright by the en- 
try of the noble peer, who was not only an intimate acquain- 
tance of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but in reality a very particular friend 
of that lady. To say truth, it was by his assistance that she 
had been enabled to escape from her husband; for this noble- 
man had the same gallant disposition with those renowned 
knights of whom we read in heroic story, and had delivered many 
an imprisoned nymph from durance. He was indeed as bitter 
an enemy to the savage authority too often exercised by husbands 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


251 


and fathers, over the young and lovely of the other sex, as ever 
knight-errant was to the barbarous power of enchanters; nay, 
to say truth, I have often suspected that those very en- 
chanters with which romance everywhere abounds were in 
reality no other than the husbands of those days ; and matrimony 
itself was, perhaps, the enchanted castle in which the nymphs 
were said to be confined. 

The peer, after a short conversation, could not, forbear ex- 
pressing some surprize at meeting the lady in that place; nor 
could he refrain from telling her he imagined she had been 
gone to Bath. Mrs Fitzpatrick very freely answered, that she 
had been prevented in her purpose by the arrival of a person she 
need not mention. 

“In short,” says she, “I was overtaken by my husband (for 
I need not affect to conceal what the world knows too well 
already). I had the good fortune to escape in a most surprizing 
manner, and am now going to London with this young lady, 
who is a near relation of mine, and who hath escaped from as 
great a tyrant as my own.” 

His lordship, concluding that this tyrant was likewise a hus- 
band, made a speech full of compliments to both the ladies, and 
as full of invectives against his own sex; nor indeed did he 
avoid some oblique glances at the matrimonial institution itself, 
and at the unjust powers given by it to man over the more sen- 
sible and more meritorious part of the species. He ended his 
oration with an offer of his protection, and his coach and six, 
which was instantly accepted by Mrs Fitzpatrick, and at last, 
upon her persuasions, by Sophia. 

Matters being thus adjusted, his lordship took his leave, and 
the ladies retired to rest, where Mrs Fitzpatrick entertained her 
cousin with many high encomiums on the character of the noble 
peer, and enlarged very particularly on his great fondness for 
his wife; saying, she believed he was almost the only person of 
high rank who was entirely constant to the marriage bed. 

“Indeed,” added she, “my dear Sophy, that is a very rare 
virtue amongst men of condition. Never expect it when you 
marry; for, believe me, if you do, you will certainly be de- 
ceived.” 

A gentle sigh stole from Sophia at these words, which per- 
haps contributed to form a dream of no very pleasant kind ; but, 


252 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


as she never revealed this dream to any one, so the reader cannot 
expect to see it related here. 

The clock had no sooner struck seven next morning, than the 
ladies were ready for their journey; and, at their desire, his 
lordship and his equipage were prepared to attend them. 

And now a matter of some difficulty arose; and this was 
how his lordship himself should be conveyed ; for though in 
stage-coaches, where passengers are properly considered as so 
much luggage, the ingenious coachman stows half a dozen with 
perfect ease into the place of four; yet in these vehicles, which 
are called, for distinction’s sake, gentlemen’s coaches, though they 
are often larger than the others, this method of packing is never 
attempted. 

His lordship would have put a short end to the difficulty, by 
very gallantly desiring to mount his horse; but Mrs Fitzpatrick 
would by no means consent to it. It was therefore concluded 
that the Abigails should, by turns, relieve each other on one of 
his lordship’s horses, which was presently equipped with a side- 
saddle for that purpose. 

Everything being settled at the inn, the ladies discharged 
their former guides. And now Sophia first discovered a loss 
which gave her some uneasiness; and this was of the hundr&d- 
pound bank-bill which her father had given her at their last 
meeting; and which, within a very inconsiderable trifle, was all 
the treasure she was at present worth. She searched everywhere, 
and shook and tumbled all her things to no purpose, the bill was 
not to be found : and she was at last fully persuaded that she 
had lost it from her pocket when she had the misfortune of tum- 
bling from her horse in the dark lane, as before recorded : a 
fact that seemed the more probable, as she now recollected some 
discomposure in her pockets which had happened at that time, 
and the great difficulty with which she had drawn forth her 
handkerchief the very instant before her fall, in order to relieve 
the distress of Mrs Fitzpatrick. 

Misfortunes of this kind, whatever inconveniences they may 
be attended with, are incapable of subduing a mind in which 
there is any strength, without the assistance of avarice. Sophia, 
therefore, though nothing could be worse timed than this ac- 
cident at such a season, immediately got the better of her con- 
cern, and, with her wonted serenity and cheerfulness of counte- 
nance, returned to her company. His lordship conducted the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


253 

ladies into the vehicle, which now began to move forwards, at- 
tended by many servants, and led by two captains, who had 
before rode with his lordship, and who would have been dis- 
missed from the vehicle upon a much less worthy occasion than 
was this of accommodating two ladies. In this they acted only 
as.gentlemen ; but they were ready at any time to have performed 
the office of a footman, or indeed would have condescended 
lower, for the honour of his lordship’s company, and for the 
convenience of his table. 

This pleasant company made such good expedition that they 
performed a journey of ninety miles in two days, and on the 
second evening arrived in London. There they were set 
down at his lordship’s house, where, while they refreshed 
themselves after the fatigue of their journey, servants were 
despatched to provide a lodging for the two ladies; for, as her 
ladyship was not then in town, Mrs Fitzpatrick would by no 
means consent to accept a bed in the mansion of the peer. 

A lodging being prepared, Sophia accompanied her cousin for 
that evening; but resolved early in the morning to enquire after 
the lady into whose protection, as we have formerly mentioned, 
she had determined to throw herself when she quitted her 
father’s house. And this she was the more eager in doing from 
some observations she had made during her journey in the 
coach. 

Now, as we would by no means fix the odious character of 
suspicion on Sophia, we are almost afraid to open to our reader 
the conceits which filled her mind concerning Mrs Fitzpatrick; 
of whom she certainly entertained at present some doubts. 

The case, it seems, was this: Mrs Fitzpatrick wisely con- 
sidered that the virtue of a young lady is, in the world, in the 
same situation with a poor hare, which is certain, whenever it 
ventures abroad, to meet its enemies ; for it can hardly meet any 
other. No sooner therefore was she determined to take the first 
opportunity of quitting the protection of her husband, than she 
resolved to cast herself under the protection of some other man ; 
and whom could she so properly choose to be her guardian as a 
person of quality, of fortune, of honour; and who, besides a 
gallant disposition which inclines men to knight-errantry, that 
is, to be the champions of ladies in distress, had often declared 
a violent attachment to herself, and had already given her all the 
instances of it in his power? 


254 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


But, as the law hath foolishly omitted this office of vice- 
husband, or guardian to an eloped lady, and as malice is apt to 
denominate him by a more disagreeable appellation, it was con- 
cluded that his lordship should perform all such kind offices to 
the lady in secret, and without publickly assuming the character 
of her protector. Nay, to prevent any other person from seeing 
him in this light, it was agreed that the lady should proceed 
directly to Bath, and that his lordship should first go to London, 
and thence should go down to that place by the advice of his 
physicians. 

Now all this Sophia very plainly understood, not from the 
lips or behaviour of Mrs Fitzpatrick, but from the peer, who 
was infinitely less expert at retaining a secret than was the good 
lady; and perhaps the exact secrecy which Mrs Fitzpatrick had 
observed on this head in her narrative served not a little to 
heighten those suspicions which were now risen in the mind of 
her cousin. 

Sophia very easily found out the lady she sought ; for indeed 
there was not a chairman in town to whom her house was not 
perfectly well known ; and, as she received, in return of her first 
message, a most pressing invitation, she immediately accepted it. 
Mrs Fitzpatrick, indeed, did not desire her cousin to stay with 
her with more earnestness than civility required. Whether she 
had discerned and resented the suspicion above-mentioned, or 
from what other motive it arose, I cannot say ; but certain it is, 
she was full as desirous of parting with Sophia as Sophia herself 
could be of going. 

The young lady, when she came to take leave of her cousin, 
could not avoid giving her a short hint of advice. She begged 
her, for heaven’s sake, to take care of herself, and to consider in 
how dangerous a situation she stood; adding, she hoped some 
method would be found of reconciling her to her husband. 

“You must remember, my dear,” says she, “the maxim which 
my aunt Western hath so often repeated to us both; That 
whenever the matrimonal alliance is broke, and war declared 
between husband and wife, she can hardly make a disadvantage- 
ous peace for herself on any conditions. These are my aunt’s 
very words, and she hath had a great deal of experience in the 
world.” 


Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, with a contemptuous smile, 
“Never fear me, child ; take care of yourself ; for you are younger 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


255 


than I. I will come and visit you in a few days; but, dear 
Sophy, let me give you one piece of advice: leave the character 
of Graveairs in the country, for, believe me, it will sit very 
awkwardly upon you in this town.” 

Thus the two cousins parted, and Sophia repaired directly to 
Lady Bellaston, where she found a most hearty, as well as a 
most polite, welcome. The lady had taken a great fancy to her 
when she had seen her formerly with her aunt Western. She 
was indeed extremely glad to see her, and was no sooner ac- 
quainted with the reasons which induced her to leave the squire 
and to fly to London than she highly applauded her sense and 
resolution; and after expressing the highest satisfaction in the 
opinion which Sophia had declared she entertained of her lady- 
ship, by chusing her house for an asylum, she promised her all 
the protection which it was in her power to give. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


In which , though the squire doth not find his daughter , some- 
thing is found which puts an end to his pursuit. 

^jpHE history now returns to the inn at Upton, whence we 
shall first trace the footsteps of Squire Western; for, as he 
will soon arrive at an end of his journey, we shall have then full 
leisure to attend our hero. 

The reader may be pleased to remember that the said squire 
departed from the inn in great fury, and in that fury he pursued 
his daughter. The hostler having informed him that she had 
crossed the Severn, he likewise past that river with his equipage, 
and rode full speed, vowing the utmost vengeance against poor 
Sophia, if he should but overtake her. 

He had not gone far before he arrived at a crossway. Here he 
called a short council of war, in which, after hearing different 
opinions, he at last gave the direction of his pursuit to fortune, 
and struck directly into the Worcester road. 

In this road he proceeded about two miles, when he began 
to bemoan himself most bitterly, frequently crying out, “What 
pity is it! Sure never was so unlucky a dog as myself!” And 
then burst forth a volley of oaths and execrations. The par- 
son attempted to administer comfort to him on this occasion. 

“Sorrow not, sir,” says he, “like those without hope. How- 
beit we have not yet been able to overtake young madam, we 
may account it some good fortune that we have hitherto traced 
her course aright. Peradventure she will soon be fatigated 
with her journey, and will tarry in some inn, in order to ren- 
ovate her corporeal functions ; and in that case, in all moral cer- 
tainty, you will very briefly be compos voti” 

“Pogh! d — n the slut!” answered the squire, “I am lament- 
ing the loss of so fine a morning for hunting. It is confounded 
hard to lose one of the best scenting days, in all appearance, 
which hath been this season, and especially after so long a frost.” 

Whether Fortune, who now and then shows some compas- 
sion in her wantonest tricks, might not take pity of the squire ; 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


257 


and, as she had determined not to let him overtake his daughter, 
might not resolve to make him amends some other way, I will 
not assert; but he had hardly uttered the words just before 
commemorated, and two or three oaths at their heels, when a 
pack of hounds began to open their melodious throats at a small 
distance from them, which the squire’s horse and his rider both 
perceiving, both immediately pricked up their ears, and the 
squire, crying, “She’s gone, she’s gone! Damn me if she is not 
gone!” instantly clapped spurs to the beast, who little needed it, 
having indeed the same inclination with his master; and now 
the whole company, crossing into a corn-field, rode directly 
towards the hounds, with much hallowing and whooping, while 
the poor parson, blessing himself, brought up the rear. 

Thus fable reports that the fair Grimalkin, whom Venus, at 
the desire of a passionate lover, converted from a cat into a fine 
woman, no sooner perceived a mouse than, mindful of her former 
sport, and still retaining her pristine nature, she leaped from the 
bed of her husband to pursue the little animal. 

The hounds ran very hard, as it is called, and the squire 
pursued over hedge and ditch, with all his usual vociferation 
and alacrity, and with all his usual pleasure; nor did the 
thoughts of Sophia ever once intrude themselves to allay the 
satisfaction he enjoyed in the chace, which, he said, was one of 
the finest he ever saw, and which he swore was very well worth 
going fifty miles for. As the squire forgot his daughter, the 
servants, we may easily believe, forgot their mistress; and the 
parson, after having expressed much astonishment, in Latin, to 
himself, at length likewise abandoned all farther thoughts of 
the young lady, and, jogging on at a distance behind, began to 
meditate a portion of doctrine for the ensuing Sunday. 

The squire who owned the hounds was highly pleased with 
the arrival of his brother squire and sportsman: for all men 
approve merit in their own way, and no man w T as more expert 
in the field than Mr Western, nor did any other better know 
how to encourage the dogs with his voice, and to animate the 
hunt with his holla. 

Sportsmen, in the warmth of a chace, are too much engaged 
to attend to any manner of ceremony, nay, even to the offices of 
humanity: for, if any of them meet with an accident by tumbling 
into a ditch, or into a river, the rest pass on regardless, and 
generally leave him to his fate: during this time, therefore, the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


258 

two squires, though often close to each other, interchanged not 
a single word. The master of the hunt, however, often saw j 
and approved the great judgment of the stranger in drawing 
the dogs when they were at a fault, and hence conceived a very 
high opinion of his understanding, as the number of his attend- 
ants inspired no small reverence to his quality. As soon, there- 
fore, as the sport was ended by the death of the little animal 
which had occasioned it, the two squires met, and in all squire- 
like greeting saluted each other. 

The conversation was entertaining enough, and what we may 
perhaps relate in an appendix, or on some other occasion; but 
as it nowise concerns this history, we cannot prevail on ourselves 
to give it a place here. It concluded with a second chace, and 
that with an invitation to dinner. This being accepted, was fol- 
lowed by a hearty bout of drinking, which ended in as hearty 
a nap on the part of Squire Western. 

Our squire was by no means a match either for his host, or 
for parson Supple, at his cups that evening; for which the violent 
fatigue of mind as well as body that he had undergone, may very 
well account, without the least derogation from his honour. He 
was indeed, according to the vulgar phrase, whistle drunk; for 
before he had swallowed the third bottle, he became so entirely 
overpowered that though he was not carried off to bed till long 
after, the parson considered him as absent, and having acquainted 
the other squire with all relating to Sophia, he obtained his 
promise of seconding those arguments which he intended to 
urge the next morning for Mr Western’s return. 

No sooner, therefore, had the good squire shaken off his even- 
ing, and began to call for his morning draught, and to summon 
his horses in order to renew his pursuit, than Mr Supple began 
his dissuasives, which the host so strongly seconded, that they at 
length prevailed, and Mr Western agreed to return home; being 
principally moved by one argument, viz., that he knew not which 
way to go, and might probably be riding farther from his 
daughter instead of towards her. He then took leave of his 
brother sportsman, and expressing great joy that the frost was 
broken (which might perhaps be no small motive to his hasten- 
ing home), set forwards, or rather backwards, for Somerset- 
shire ; but not before he had first despatched part of his retinue 
in quest of his daughter, after whom he likewise sent a volley of 
the most bitter execrations which he could invent. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


The departure of Jones from TJpton, and the adventures which 
befel him and Partridge on the road. 

length we are once more come to our hero; and, to say 
truth, we have been obliged to part with him so long, that, 
considering the condition in which we left him, I apprehend 
many of our readers have concluded we intended to abandon 
him for ever; he being at present in that situation in which 
prudent people usually desist from enquiring any farther after 
their friends, lest they should be shocked by hearing such friends 
had hanged themselves. 

But, in reality, if we have not all the virtues, I will boldly 
say, neither have we all the vices of a prudent character; and 
though it is not easy to conceive circumstances much more mis- 
erable than those of poor Jones at present, we shall return to 
him, and attend upon him with the same diligence as if he was 
wantoning in the brightest beams of fortune. 

Mr Jones, then, and his companion Partridge, left the inn a 
few minutes after the departure of Squire Western, and pursued 
the same road on foot, for the hostler told them that no horses 
were by any means to be at that time procured at Upton. On 
they marched with heavy hearts; for though their disquiet pro- 
ceeded from very different reasons, yet displeased they were 
both ; and if Jones sighed bitterly, Partridge grunted altogether 
as sadly at every step. 

When they came to the cross-roads where the squire had stopt 
to take counsel, Jones stopt likewise, and turning to Partridge, 
asked his opinion which track they should pursue. 

“Ah, sir,” answered Partridge, “I wish your honour would 
follow my advice.” 

“Why should I not?” replied Jones; “for it is now indiffer- 
ent to me whither I go, or what becomes of me.” 

“My advice, then,” said Partridge, “is, that you immediately 
face about and return home ; for who that hath such a home to 


260 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


return to as your honour, would travel thus about the country 
like a vagabond ? I ask pardon, sed vox ea sola reperta est.” 

“Alas!” cries Jones, “I have no home to return to; — but if my 
friend, my father, would receive me, could I bear the country 
from which Sophia is flown? Cruel Sophia! Cruel! No; let 
me blame myself! — No; let me blame thee. D — nation seize 
thee — fool — blockhead! thou hast undone me, and I will tear 
thy soul from thy body.” 

At which w T ords he laid violent hands on the collar of poor 
Partridge, and shook him more heartily than an ague-fit, or his 
own fears had ever done before. 

Partridge fell trembling on his knees, and begged for mercy, 
vowing he had meant no harm — when Jones, after staring wild- 
ly on him for a moment, quitted his hold, and discharged a rage 
on himself, that, had it fallen on the other, would certainly 
have put an end to his being, which indeed the very apprehension 
of it had almost effected. 

After having played the part of a madman for many minutes, 
Jones came, by degrees, to himself; which no sooner happened, 
than, turning to Partridge, he very earnestly begged his pardon 
for the attack he had made on him in the violence of his passion ; 
but concluded, by desiring him never to mention his return 
again ; for he was resolved never to see that country any more. 

Partridge easily forgave, and faithfully promised to obey the 
injunction now laid upon him. And then Jones very briskly 
cried out, “Since it is absolutely impossible for me to pursue any 
farther the steps of my angel — I will pursue those of glory. 
Come on, my brave lad, now for the army: — it is a glorious 
cause, and I would willingly sacrifice my life in it, even though 
it was worth my preserving.” And so saying, he immediately 
struck into the different road from that which the squire had 
taken, and, by mere chance, pursued the very same through 
which Sophia had before passed. 

Our travellers now marched a full mile, and arrived at 
another cross-way, when a lame fellow in rags asked them for 
alms; upon which Jones, putting his hand in his pocket, gave 
the poor object a shilling. 

“Master,” cries the fellow, after thanking him, “I have a 
curious thing here in my pocket, which I found about two miles 
off, if your worship will please to buy it. I should not venture 
to pull it out to every one ; but, as you are so good a gentleman, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


261 


and so kind to the poor, you won’t suspect a man of being a 
thief only because he is poor.” He then pulled out a little gilt 
pocket-book, and delivered it into the hands of Jones. 

Jones presently opened it, and (guess, reader, what he felt) 
saw in the first page the words Sophia Western, written by her 
own fair hand. He no sooner read the name than he prest it 
close to his lips ; nor could he avoid falling into some very frantic 
raptures, notwithstanding his company ; but, perhaps, these very 
raptures made him forget he was not alone. 

While Jones was kissing and mumbling the book, as if he had 
an excellent brown buttered crust in his mouth or as if he had 
really been a book-worm, or an author who had nothing to eat 
but his own works, a piece of paper fell from its leaves to the 
ground, which Partridge took up, and delivered to Jones, who 
presently perceived it to be a bank-bill. It was, indeed, the very 
bill which Western had given his daughter the night before her 
departure; and a Jew would have jumped to purchase it at five 
shillings less than £100. 

The eyes of Partridge sparkled at this news, which Jones now 
proclaimed aloud ; and so did (though with somewhat a different 
aspect) those of the poor fellow who had found the book; and 
who (I hope from a principle of honesty) had never opened it: 
but we should not deal honestly by the reader if we omitted to 
inform him of a circumstance which may be here a little material, 
viz. that the fellow could not read. 

Jones, who had felt nothing but pure joy and transport from 
the finding the book, was affected with a mixture of concern at 
this new discovery; for his imagination instantly suggested to 
him that the owner of the bill might possibly want it before he 
should be able to convey it to her. He then acquainted the 
finder that he knew the lady to whom the book belonged, and 
would endeavour to find her out as soon as possible, and return 
it her. 

The pocket-book was a late present from Mrs Western to her 
niece; it had cost five-and-twenty shillings, having been bought 
of a celebrated toyman ; but the real value of the silver which it 
contained in its clasp was about eighteen-pence; and that price 
the said to)unan, as it was altogether as good as when it first 
issued from his shop, would now have given for it. 

Jones, on the contrary, whose character was on the outside 
of generosity, and may perhaps not very unjustly have been sus- 


262 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


pected of extravagance, without any hesitation gave a guinea in 
exchange for the book. The poor man, who had not for a long 
time before been possessed of so much treasure, gave Mr Jones 
a thousand thanks, and discovered little less of transport in his 
muscles than Jones had before shown when he had first read 
the name of Sophia Western. 

The fellow very readily agreed to attend our travellers to the 
place where he had found the pocket-book, and here Jones of- 
fered to take leave of his guide, but the fellow, in w T hom that j 
violent surprize and joy which the first receipt of the guinea had j 
occasioned was now considerably abated, and who had now had j 
sufficient time to recollect himself, put on a discontented look, 
and, scratching his head, said, he hoped his worship would give 
him something more. 

“Your worship,” said he, “will, I hope, take it into your con- 
sideration that if I had not been honest I might have kept the 
whole.” 

“I promise thee, upon my honour,” cries Jones, “that I know 
the rightful owner, and will restore it to her — and as for any 
farther gratuity, I really cannot give it you at present; but let 
me know your name, and where you live, and it is more than 
possible you may hereafter have further reason to rejoice at this 
morning’s adventure.” 

“I don’t know what you mean by venture,” cries the fellow; 
“it seems I must venture whether you will return the lady her 
money or no; but I hope your worship w'ill consider ” 

“Come, come,” said Partridge, “tell his honour your name, 
and where you may be found ; I warrant you will never repent 
having put the money into his hands.” 

The fellow, seeing no hopes of recovering the possession of the 
pocket-book, at last complied in giving in his name and place of 
abode, w'hich Jones writ upon a piece of paper with the pencil of 
Sophia; and then, placing the paper in the same page where she 
had writ her name, he cried out, “There, friend, you are the hap- 
piest man alive; I have joined your .name to that of an angel.” 

“I don’t know anything about angels,” answered the fellow; 
“but I wish you would give me a little more money, or else 
return me the pocket-book.” 

Partridge now waxed wrath: he called the poor cripple by 
several vile and opprobrious names, and was absolutely proceed- 
ing to beat him, but Jones would not suffer any such thing: and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


263 

now, telling the fellow he would certainly find some opportunity 
of serving him, Mr Jones departed as fast as his heels would 
carry him; and Partridge, into whom the thoughts of the hun- 
dred pound had infused new spirits, followed his leader; while 
the man, who was obliged to stay behind, fell to cursing them 
both, as well as his parents; “for had they,” says he, “sent me 
to charity-school to learn to write and read and cast accounts, I 
should have known the value of these matters as well as other 
people.” 

Our travellers now walked so fast, that they had very little, 
time or breath for conversation ; Jones meditating all the way on 
Sophia, and Partridge on the bank-bill, which, though it gave 
him some pleasure, caused him at the same to repine at fortune, 
which, in all his walks, had never given him such an opportunity 
of showing his honesty. They had proceeded above three miles, 
when Partridge, being unable any longer to keep up with Jones, 
called to him, and begged him a little to slacken his pace : with 
this he was the more ready to comply, as he had for some time 
lost the footsteps of the horses, which the thaw had enabled him 
to trace for several miles, and he was now upon a wide common, 
where were several roads. 

They soon arrived at an inn, or indeed an ale-house, where 
Jones was prevailed upon to stop, the rather as he had no longer 
any assurance of being in the road he desired. They walked 
both directly into the kitchen, where Jones began to enquire if 
no ladies had passed that way in the morning, and Partridge as 
eagerly examined into the state of their provisions ; and indeed his 
enquiry met with the better success; for Jones could not hear 
news of Sophia; but Partridge, to his great satisfaction, found 
good reason to expect very shortly the agreeable sight of an 
excellent smoking dish of eggs and bacon. 

Before our travellers had finished their dinner, night came 
on, and as the moon was now past the full, it was extremely 
dark. Partridge therefore prevailed on Jones to stay and see 
a puppet-show, which was just going to begin, and to which 
they were very eagerly invited by the master of the said show, 
who declared that his figures were the finest which the world 
had ever produced, and that they had given great satisfaction 
to all the quality in every town in England. The puppet-show 
was performed with great regularity and decency, and after 
witnessing it, our travellers retired to rest. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


264 

As there is no wholesomer, so perhaps there are few stronger, 
sleeping potions than fatigue. Of this Jones might be said to 
have taken a very large dose, and it operated very forcibly upon 
him. He had already slept nine hours, and might perhaps have 
slept longer, had he not been awakened by a most violent noise 
at his chamber-door, where the sound of many heavy blows was 
accompanied with many exclamations of murder. Jones pres- 
ently leapt from his bed, where he found the master of the pup- 
pet-show belabouring the back and ribs of his poor Merry- 
Andrew, without either mercy or moderation. 

Jones instantly interposed on behalf of the suffering party, 
and pinned the insulting conqueror up to the wall: for the 
puppet-show man was no more able to contend with Jones than 
the poor party-coloured jester had been to contend with this 
puppet-man. 

But though the Merrj^-Andrew was a little fellow, and not 
very strong, he had nevertheless some choler about him. He 
therefore no sooner found himself delivered from the enemy, 
than he began to attack him with the only weapon at which he 
was his equal. From this he first discharged a volley of general 
abusive words, and thence proceeded to some particular accusa- 
tions. 

“D — n your bl — d, you rascal,” says he, “I have not 
only supported you (for to me you owe all the money you get), 
but I have saved you from the gallows. Did you not want to 
rob the lady of her fine riding-habit, no longer ago than yester- 
day, in the back-lane here? Can you deny that you wished to 
have her alone in a wood to strip her — to strip one of the pret- 
tiest ladies that ever was seen in the world ?” 

Jones no sooner heard this than he quitted the master, laying 
on him at the same time the most violent injunctions of forbear- 
ance from any further insult on the Merry-Andrew; and then 
taking the poor wretch with him into his own apartment, he 
soon learned tidings of his Sophia, whom the fellow, as he was 
attending his master with his drum the day before, had seen 
pass by. He easily prevailed with the lad to show him the ex- 
act place, and then having summoned Partridge, he departed 
with the utmost expedition. 

They had not gone above two miles when a violent storm of 
rain overtook them ; and, as they happened to be at the same 
time in sight of an ale-house, Partridge, with much earnest 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


265 

entreaty, prevailed with Jones to enter, and weather the 
storm. Hunger is an enemy (if indeed it may be called one) 
which partakes more of the English than of the French 
I disposition; for, though you subdue this never so often, 
it will always rally again in time; and so it did with 
Partridge, who was no sooner arrived within the kitchen, 
than he began to ask the same questions which he had asked the 
night before. The consequence of this was an excellent cold 
chine being produced upon the table, upon which not only Part- 
ridge, but Jones himself, made a very hearty breakfast, though 
the latter began to grow again uneasy, as the people of the house 
could give him no fresh information concerning Sophia. 

Their meal being over, Jones was again preparing to sally, 
notwithstanding the violence of the storm still continued ; but 
Partridge begged heartily for another mug; and at last casting 
his eyes on a lad at the fire, who had entered into the kitchen, 
and who at that instant was looking as earnestly at him, he 
turned suddenly to Jones, and cried, “Master, give me your 
hand, a single mug shan’t serve the turn this bout. Why, here’s 
more news of Madam Sophia come to town. The boy there 
standing by the fire is the very lad that rode before her. I can 
swear to my own plaister on his face.” 

“Heaven bless you, sir,” cries the boy, “it is your own plaister 
sure enough ; I shall have always reason to remember your good- 
ness; for it hath almost cured me.” 

At these words Jones started from his chair, and, bidding the 
boy follow him immediately, departed from the kitchen into a 
private apartment ; for, so delicate was he with regard to Sophia, 
that he never willingly mentioned her name in the presence of 
many people ; and, though he had, as it were, from the overflow- 
ings of his heart, given Sophia as a toast among the officers, 
where he thought it was impossible she should be known; yet, 
ever there, the reader may remember how difficultly he was pre- 
vailed upon to mention her sir-name. 

But while Jones was examining his boy in whispers in an inner 
room, Partridge, who had no such delicacy in his disposition, 
was in the kitchen very openly catechising the other guide who 
had attended Mrs Fitzpatrick; by which means the landlord, 
whose ears were open on all such occasions, became perfectly well 
acquainted with the whole story. 

Jones had been absent a full half-hour, when he returned into 


266 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


the kitchen in a hurry, desiring the landlord to let him know 
that instant what was to pay. And now the concern which 
Partridge felt at being obliged to quit the warm chimney-corner, 
and a cup of excellent liquor, was somewhat compensated by 
hearing that he was to proceed no farther on foot, for Jones, by 
golden arguments, had prevailed with the boy to attend him 
back to the inn whither he had before conducted Sophia. 

The horses being now produced, Jones directly leapt into the 
side-saddle, on which his dear Sophia had rid, and within four 
hours the party arrived at the inn where the reader hath already 
spent so much time. The clock had just struck three when they 
arrived, and Jones immediately bespoke post-horses ; but un- 
luckily there was not a horse to be procured in the whole place ; 
which the reader will not wonder at when he considers the hurry 
in which the whole nation, and especially this part of it, was at 
this time engaged, when expresses were passing and repassing 
every hour of the day and night. 

Jones endeavoured all he could to prevail with his former 
guide to escort him to Coventry ; but he was inexorable. While 
he was arguing with the boy in the inn-yard, a person came up 
to him, and saluting him by his name, enquired how all the good 
family did in Somersetshire; and now Jones casting his eyes 
upon this person, presently discovered him to be Mr Dowling, 
the lawyer, with whom he had dined at Gloucester, and with 
much courtesy returned the salutation. 

Dowling very earnestly pressed Mr Jones to go no further 
that night ; but when he found he could not prevail on Jones to 
stay, he as strenuously applied himself to persuade the guide to 
accompany him. The lad finally submitted to the persuasions 
of Mr Dowling, and promised once more to admit Jones into his 
side-saddle ; but insisted on first giving the poor creatures a good 
bait, saying, they had travelled a great way, and been rid very 
hard. While the beasts were eating their corn, Mr Jones, at the 
earnest desire of Mr Dowling, accompanied that gentleman in- 
to his room, where they sat down together over a bottle of wine. 

Mr Dowling, pouring out a glass of wine, named the health 
of the good Squire Allworthy; adding, “If you please, sir, we 
will likewise remember his nephew and heir, the young squire: 
Come, sir, here’s Mr Blifil to you.” 

“Sir,” answered Jones, “I am convinced you don’t intend to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


267 

affront me, so I shall not resent it ; but I promise you, you have 
joined two persons very improperly together; for one is the glory 
of the human species, and the other is a rascal who dishonours 
the name of man.” 

Dowling stared at this. He said, he thought both the gentle- 
men had a very unexceptionable character. “As for Squire All- 
worthy himself,” says he, “I never had the happiness to see him; 
but all the world talks of his goodness. And, indeed, as to the 
young gentleman, I never saw^ him but once, when I carried him 
the news of the loss of his mother; and then I was so hurried, 
and drove, and tore with the multiplicity of business, that I had 
hardly time to converse with him; but he looked so like a very 
honest gentleman, and behaved himself so prettily, that I protest 
I never was more delighted with any gentleman since I was 
born.” 

“I don’t wonder,” answered Jones, “that he should impose 
upon you in so short an acquaintance; for he hath the cunning 
of the devil himself, and you may live with him many years, 
without discovering him. I saw a selfishness in him long ago 
which I despised ; but it is lately, very lately, that I have found 
him capable of the basest and blackest designs; for, indeed, I 
have at last found out, that he hath taken an advantage of the 
openness of my own temper, and hath concerted the deepest pro- 
ject, by a long train of wicked artifice, to work my ruin, which 
at last he hath effected.” 

“Ay! ay!” cries Dowling; “I protest, then, it is a pity such 
a person should inherit the great estate of your uncle Allworthy.” 

“Alas, sir,” cries Jones, “you do me an honour to which I 
have no title. I assure you, sir, I am no relation of Mr All- 
worthy; and if the world, who are incapable of setting a true 
value on his virtue, should think, in his behaviour to me, he hath 
dealt hardly by a relation, they do an injustice to the best of 
men.” 

“I protest, sir,” cried Dowling, “you talk very much like a 
man of honour; and I protest it would give me great pleasure to 
know how you came to be thought a relation of Mr Allworthy’s, 
if you are not. Your horses won’t be ready this half-hour, and 
as you have sufficient opportunity, I wish you would tell me how 
all that happened ; for I protest it seems very surprizing that you 
should pass for a relation of a gentleman, without being so.” 

Jones, who in the compliance of his disposition (though not 


268 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


in his prudence) a little resembled his lovely Sophia, was easily 
prevailed on to satisfy Mr Dowling’s curiosity, by relating the 
history of his birth and education, which he did, like Othello. 

Even from his boyish years, 

To th’ very moment he was bade to tell : 
the which to hear, Dowling, like Desdemona, did seriously 
incline ; 

He swore ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange; 

’Twas pitiful, ’twas wonderous pitiful. 

Mr Dowling was indeed very greatly affected with 
this relation, and proposed a bumper; but at that moment 
Jones was informed by Partridge that the horses were ready, and 
hastily depositing his reckoning, he wished his companion a good 
night, mounted and set forward toward Coventry, though the 
night was dark, and it just then began to rain very hard. In 
consequence of this, our travellers deviated into a much less fre- 
quented track ; and after riding full six miles, instead of arriving 
at the stately spires of Coventry, they found themselves still in 
a very dirty lane, where they saw no symptoms of approaching 
the suburbs of a large city. 

It is not, perhaps, easy for a reader, who hath never been in 
those circumstances, to imagine the horror with which darkness, 
rain, and wind, fill persons who have lost their way in the night ; 
and who, consequently, have not the pleasant prospect of warm 
fires, dry clothes, and other refreshments to support their minds 
in struggling with the inclemencies of the weather. A very 
imperfect idea of this horror will, however, serve sufficiently to 
account for the conceits which now filled the head of Partridge, 
who said, when they first set out he imagined some mischief or 
other would happen. 

“Did you not observe, sir,” said he to Jones, “that old woman 
who stood at the door just as you was taking horse? I wish you 
had given her a small matter, with all my heart; for she said 
then you might repent it; and at that very instant it began to 
rain, and the wind hath continued rising ever since. Whatever 
some people may think, I am very certain it is in the powfer of 
witches to raise the wind whenever they please. I have seen it 
happen very often in my time: and if ever I saw a witch in all 
my life, that old woman was certainly one. I thouglit so to 
myself at that very time ; and if I had had any halfpence in my 
pocket, I would have given her some ; for to be sure it is always 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


269 

good to be charitable to those sort of people, for fear what may 
happen ; and many a person hath lost his cattle by saving a half- 
penny.” 

Jones, though he was horribly vexed at the delay which this 
mistake was likely to occasion in his journey, could not help 
smiling at the superstition of his friend, whom an accident now 
greatly confirmed in his opinion. This was a tumble from his 
horse; by which, however, he received no other injury than what 
the dirt conferred on his clothes. 

Partridge had no sooner recovered his legs, than he appealed 
to his fall, as conclusive evidence of all he had asserted ; but 
Jones finding he was unhurt, answered with a smile: “This 
witch of yours, Partridge, is a most ungrateful jade, and doth 
not, I find, distinguish her friends from others in her resent- 
ment. If the old lady had been angry with me for neglecting 
her, I don’t see why she should tumble you from your horse, 
after all the respect you have expressed for her.” 

“It is ill jesting,” cries Partridge, “with people who have 
power to do these things; for they are often very malicious. I 
remember a farrier, who provoked one of them, by asking her 
when the time she had bargained with the devil for would be 
out; and within three months from that very day one of his 
best cows was drowned. Nor was she satisfied with that; for 
a little time afterwards he lost a barrel of best-drink: for the 
old witch pulled out the spigot, and let it run all over the cellar, 
the very first evening he had tapped it to make merry with some 
of his neighbours. In short, nothing ever thrived with him 
afterwards; for she worried the poor man so, that he took to 
drinking ; and in a year or two his stock was seized, and he and 
his family are now come to the parish. We shall very soon,” 
added he, “reach the inn ; for though we have seemed to go for- 
ward, I am very certain we are in the identical place in which 
we were an hour ago ; and I dare swear, if it was daylight, we 
might now see the inn we set out from.” 

They now discovered a light at some distance, to the great 
pleasure of Jones, and to the no small terror of Partridge, who 
firmly believed himself to be bewitched, and that this light was 
a Jacftewith-a-lantern, or somewhat more mischievous. 

But r how were these fears increased, when, as they approached 
nearer to this light (or lights as they now appeared), they heard 
a confused sound of human voices; of singing, laughing, and 


270 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


hallowing, together with a strange noise that seemed to proceed 
from some instruments; but could hardly be allowed the name 
of music! indeed, to favour a little the opinion of Partridge, it 
might very well be called music bewitched. 

It is impossible to conceive a much greater degree of horror 
than what now seized on Partridge ; the contagion of which had 
reached the post-boy, who had been very attentive to many 
things that the other had uttered. Ke now, therefore, joined 
in petitioning Jones to return ; saying he firmly believed what 
Partridge had just before said, that though the horses seemed 
to go on, they had not moved a step forwards during at least the 
last half-hour. Jones could not help smiling in the midst of 
his vexation, at the fears of these poor fellows. 

“Either we advance,” says he, “towards the lights, or the 
lights have advanced towards us ; for we are now at a very little 
distance from them ; but how can either of you be afraid of a set 
of people who appear only to be merry-making?” 

“Merry-making, sir!” cries Partridge; “who could be merry- 
making at this time of night, and in such a place, and such 
weather? They can be nothing but ghosts or witches, or some 
evil spirits or other, that’s certain.” 

“Let them be what they will,” cries Jones, “I am resolved 
to go up to them, and enquire the way to Coventry. All witches, 
Partridge, are not such ill-natured hags as that we had the 
misfortune to meet with last.” 

“O Lord, sir,” cries Partridge, “there is no knowledge what 
humour they will be in ; to be sure it is always best to be civil 
to them ; but what if we should meet with something worse than 

witches, with evil spirits themselves? Pray, sir, be advised; 

pray, sir, do. If you had read so many terrible accounts as I 

have of these matters, you would not be so fool-hardy. The 

Lord knows whither we have got already, or whither we are 
going; for sure such darkness was never seen upon earth, and I 
question whether it can be darker in the other world.” .. 

Jones put forwards as fast as he could, notwithstanding all 
these hints and cautions, and poor Partridge was obliged to fol- 
low ; for though he hardly dared to advance, he dared still less 
to stay behind by himself. 

At length they arrived at the place whence the lights and 
different noises had issued. This Jones perceived to be no other 
than a barn, where a band of gypsies were assembled, and di- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


271 


verting themselves with much apparent jollity. One of these 
presently set them in the right road ; but Jones having, by rea- 
son of his deviation, travelled eleven miles instead of six, did not 
arrive at Coventry till near twelve. Nor could he possibly get 
again into the saddle till past two ; for post-horses were now not 
easy to get; nor were the hostler or post-boy in half so great a 
hurry as himself, but chose rather to imitate the tranquil disposi- 
tion of Partridge; who, being denied the nourishment of sleep, 
took all opportunities to supply its place with every other kind of 
nourishment, and was never better pleased than when he ar- 
rived at an inn, nor more dissatisfied than when he was 
again forced to leave it. 

Jones now travelled post; we will follow him, therefore, ac- 
cording to our custom, and to the rules of Longinus, in the same 
manner. From Coventry he arrived at Daventry, from Dav- 
entry at Stratford, and from Stratford at Dunstable, whither 
he came the next day a little after noon, and within a few hours 
after Sophia had left it ; and though he was obliged to stay here 
longer than he wished, while a smith, with great deliberation, 
shoed the post-horse he was to ride, he doubted not but to over- 
take his Sophia before she should set out from St. Albans; at 
which place he concluded, and very reasonably, that his lord- 
ship would stop and dine. 

And had he been right in this conjecture, he most probably 
would have overtaken his angel at the aforesaid place; but un- 
luckily my lord had appointed a dinner to be prepared for him 
at his own house in London, and, in order to enable him to 
reach that place in proper time, he had ordered a relay of horses 
to meet him at St. Albans. When Jones therefore arrived there, 
he was informed that the coach-and-six had set out two hours 
before. 

If fresh post-horses had been now ready, as they were not, 
it seemed so apparently impossible to overtake the coach before 
it reached London, that Partridge thought he had now a proper 
opportunity to remind his friend of a matter which he seemed 
entirely to have forgotten ; what this was the reader will guess, 
when we inform him that Jones had eat nothing more than 
one poached egg since he had left the alehouse where he had first 
met the guide returning from Sophia. 

Jones was at length prevailed on, and now a joint of mutton 
was put down to the fire. While this was preparing, Partridge, 


272 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


being admitted into the same apartment with his friend or 
master, began to harangue in the following manner. 

“Certainly, sir, if ever man deserved a young lady, you de- 
serve young Madam Western ; for what a vast quantity of love 
must a man have, to be able to live upon it without any other 
food, as you do ? I am positive I have eat thirty times as much 
within these last twenty-four hours as your honour, and yet I 
am almost famished ; for nothing makes a man so hungry as 
travelling, especially in this cold raw weather. And yet I can’t 
tell how it is, but your honour is seemingly in perfect good 
health, and you never looked better nor fresher in your life. It 
must be certainly love that you live upon.” 

“And a very rich diet too, Partridge,” answered Jones. “But 
did not fortune send me an excellent dainty yesterday? Dost 
thou imagine I cannot live more than twenty-four hours on this 
dear pocket-book?” 

“Undoubtedly,” cries Partridge, “there is enough in that 
pocket-book to purchase many a good meal. Fortune sent it to 
your honour very opportunely for present use, as your honour’s 
money must be almost out by this time.” 

“What do you mean?” answered Jones; “I hope you don’t 
imagine that I should be dishonest enough, even if it belonged 
to any other person, besides Miss Western ” 

“Dishonest!” replied Partridge, “heaven forbid I should 
wrong your honour so much ! but where’s the dishonesty in bor- 
rowing a little for present spending, since you will be so well 
able to pay the lady hereafter? Besides, if she should want a 
little, she can’t want the whole, therefore I would give her a 
little; but I would be hanged before I mentioned the having 
found it at first, and before I got some money of my own ; for 
London, I have heard, is the very worst of places to be in with- 
out money. You will do as you please, notwithstanding all I 
say; but for my part, I would be hanged before I mentioned a 
word of the matter.” 

“Ly what I can see, Partridge,” cries Jones, “hanging is a 
matter non longe alienum a Sc<zvol<z studiis 

“You should say alienus ” says Partridge. — “I remember the 
passage; it is an example under communis, alienus, immunis, 
variis casibus serviunt ” 

“If you do remember it,” cries Jones, “I find you don’t under- 
stand it; but I tell thee, friend, in plain English, that he who 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


273 


finds another’s property, and wilfully detains it from the known 
owner, deserves, in foro conscientice , to be hanged, no less than 
if he had stolen it. I charge thee, if thou would’st not incur 
I rny displeasure for ever, not to shock me any more by the bare 

( mention of such detestable baseness.” 

“I should not have mentioned it now,” cries Partridge, “ if 
it had appeared so to me; for I’m sure I scorn any wickedness 
as much as another; but perhaps you know better; and yet I 
might have imagined that I should not have lived so many 
years, and have taught school so long, without being able to 
distinguish between fas et nefas ; but it seems we are all to live 
and learn. I remember my old schoolmaster, who was a prodi- 
gious great scholar, used often to say, Polly matete cry town is 
.my daskalon. The English of which, he told us, was, That 
a child may sometimes teach his grandmother to suck eggs. I 
have lived to a fine purpose, truly, if I am to be taught my 
grammar at this time of day. Perhaps, young gentleman, you 
may change your opinion, if you live to my years: for I re- 
member I thought myself as wise when I was a stripling of one 
or two and twenty as I am now. I am sure I always taught 
alienus, and my master read it so before me.” 

There were not many instances in which Partridge could pro- 
voke Jones, nor were there many in which Partridge himself 
could have been hurried out of his respect. Unluckily, how- 
ever, they had both hit on one of these. We have already seen 
Partridge could not bear to have his learning attacked, nor 
could Jones bear some passage or other in the foregoing speech. 
And now, looking upon his companion with a contemptuous and 
disdainful air (a thing not usual with him), he cried, “Par- 
tridge, I see thou art a conceited old fool, and I wish thou art 
not likewise an old rogue. Indeed, if I was as well convinced 
of the latter as I am of the former, thou should’st travel no 
farther in my company.” 

The sage pedagogue was contented with the vent which he 
had already given to his indignation; and, as the vulgar phrase 
is, immediately drew in his horns. He said, he was sorry he 
had uttered anything which might give offence, for that he had 
never intended it; but Nemo omnibus horis sapit. 

As Jones had the vices of a warm disposition, he was entirely 
free from those of a cold one. He instantly accepted the sub- 
mission of Partridge, shook him by the hand, and with the most 


274 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


benign aspect imaginable, said twenty kind things, and at the 
same time very severely condemned himself, though not half so 
severely as he will most probably be condemned by many of our 
good readers. 

Partridge was now highly comforted, as his fears of having 
offended were at once abolished, and his pride completely satisfied 
by Jones having owned himself in the wrong, which submission 
he instantly applied to what had principally nettled him, and re- 
peated in a muttering voice, “To be sure, sir, your knowledge 
may be superior to mine in some things ; but as to the grammar, 
I think I may challenge any man living. I think, at least, I 
have that at my finger’s end.” 

If anything could add to the satisfaction which the poor man 
now enjoyed, he received this addition by the arrival of an ex- 
cellent shoulder of mutton, that at this instant came smoaking 
to the table. On which, having both plentifully feasted, they 
again mounted their horses, and set forward for London, where 
they arrived without encountering any new mishap. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

TV hat befel Mr Jones on his arrival in London . 

HE learned Dr. Misaubin used to say, that the proper direc- 
tion to him was To Dr Misaubin, in the World ; inti- 
mating that there were few people in it to whom his great repu- 
tation was not known. And, perhaps, upon a very nice exami- 
nation into the matter, we shall find that this circumstance bears 
no inconsiderable part among the many blessings of grandeur. 

From that figure which the Irish peer, who brought Sophia to 
town, hath already made in this history, the reader will conclude, 
doubtless, it must have been an easy matter to have discovered 
his house in London without knowing the particular street or 
square which he inhabited, since he must have been one whom 
everybody knows. But Jones, as well as Partridge, was an en- 
tire stranger in London ; and as he happened to arrive first in a 
quarter of the town, the inhabitants of which have very little 
intercourse with the householders of Planover or Grosvenor- 
square (for he entered through Gray’s-inn-lane) , so he rambled 
about some time before he could even find his way to those 
happy mansions. After a successless enquiry till the clock had 
struck eleven, Jones at last yielded to the advice of Partridge, 
and retreated to the Bull and Gate in Holborn, that being the 
inn where he had first alighted, and where he retired to enjoy 
that kind of repose which usually attends persons in his circum- 
stances. 

Early in the morning he again set forth in pursuit of Sophia ; 
and many a weary step he took to no better purpose than before. 
At last, whether it was that Fortune relented, or whether it 
was no longer in her power to disappoint him, he came into the 
very street which was honoured by his lordship’s residence ; and, 
being directed to the house, he gave one gentle rap at the door. 

The porter, who, from the modesty of the knock, had con- 
ceived no high idea of the person approaching, conceived but 
little better from the appearance of Mr Jones, who was drest 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


276 

in a suit of fustian, and had by his side a weapon purchased of 
his friend the serjeant; of which, though the blade might be 
composed of well-tempered steel, the handle was composed only 
of brass, and that none of the brightest. When Jones, there- 
fore, enquired after the young lady who had come to town with 
his lordship, this fellow answered surlily, that there were no 
ladies there. Jones then desired to see the master of the house ; 
but was informed that his lordship would see nobody that 
morning. 

I have often thought that, by the particular description of 
Cerberus, the porter of hell, in the 6th /Eneid, Virgil might 
possibly intend to satirize the porters of the great men in his 
time ; the picture, at least, resembles those who have the 
honour to attend at the doors of our great men. The porter 
in his lodge answers exactly to Cerberus in his den, and, like him, 
must be appeased by a sop before access can be gained to his 
master. Perhaps Jones might have seen him in that light, and 
have recollected the passage where the Sibyl, in order to pro- 
cure an entrance for /Eneas, presents the keeper of the Stygian 
avenue with such a sop. Jones, in like manner, now began 
to offer a bribe to the human Cerberus, which a footman, over- 
hearing, instantly advanced, and declared, if Mr Jones would 
give him the sum proposed, he would conduct him to the lady. 
Jones instantly agreed, and was forthwith conducted to the 
lodging of Mrs Fitzpatrick by the very fellow who had at- 
tended the ladies thither the day before. 

Nothing more aggravates ill success than the near approach 
to good. The gamester, who loses his party at piquet by a 
single point, laments his bad luck ten times as much as he who 
never came within a prospect of the game. So in a lottery, the 
proprietors of the next numbers to that which wins the great 
prize are apt to account themselves much more unfortunate 
than their fellow-sufferers. In short, these kind of hairbreadth 
missings of happiness look like the insults of Fortune, who may 
be considered as thus playing tricks with us, and wantonly di- 
verting herself at our expense. 

Jones, who more than once already had experienced this 
frolicsome disposition of the heathen goddess, was now again 
doomed to be tantalized in the like manner; for he arrived at 
the door of Mrs Fitzpatrick about ten minutes after the de- 
parture of Sophia. He now addressed himself to the waiting- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


277 


woman belonging to Mrs Fitzpatrick; who told him the dis- 
agreeable news that the lady was gone, but could not tell him 
whither ; and the same answer he afterwards received from 
Mrs Fitzpatrick herself. For as that lady made no doubt but 
that Mr Jones was a person detached from her uncle Western, 
in pursuit of his daughter, so she was too generous to betray her. 

Though Jones had never seen Mrs Fitzpatrick, yet he had 
heard that a cousin of Sophia was married to a gentleman of 
that name. This, however, in the present tumult of his mind, 
never once recurred to his memory; but when the footman, 
who had conducted him from his lordship’s, acquainted him with 
the great intimacy between the ladies, and with their calling 
each other cousin, he then recollected the story of the marriage 
which he had formerly heard ; and as he was presently convinced 
that this was the same woman, he became more surprized at the 
answer which he had received, and very earnestly desired leave 
to wait on the lady herself ; but she as positively refused him that 
honour. 

Jones, who, though he had never seen a court, was better bred 
than most who frequent it, was incapable of any rude or abrupt 
behaviour to a lady. When he had received, therefore, a per- 
emptory denial, he retired for the present, saying to the wait- 
ing-woman, that if this was an improper hour to wait on her 
lady, he would return in the afternoon ; and that he then hoped 
to have the honour of seeing her. The civility with which he 
uttered this, added to the great comeliness of his person, made 
an impression on the waiting-woman, and she could not help 
answering: “Perhaps, sir, you may;” and, indeed, she after- 
wards said everything to her mistress, which she thought most 
likely to prevail on her to admit a visit from the handsome 
young gentleman ; for so she called him. 

Jones very shrewdly suspected that Sophia herself was now 
with her cousin, and was denied to him; which he imputed to 
her resentment of what had happened at Upton. Having, 
therefore, dispatched Partridge to procure him lodgings, he re- 
mained all day in the street, watching the door where he 
thought his angel lay concealed ; but no person did he see issue 
forth, except a servant of the house, and in the evening he re- 
turned to pay his visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick, which that good lady 
at last condescended to admit. 

The reader will not, I believe, be desirous of knowing all 


THE HISTORY OF. TOM JONES. 


278 

the particulars of their conversation, which ended very little to 
the satisfaction of poor Jones. For though Mrs Fitzpatrick 
soon discovered the lover (as all women have the eyes of hawks 
in those matters), yet she still thought it was such a lover, as 
a generous friend of the lady should not betray her to. In 
short, she suspected this was the very Mr Blifil, from whom 
Sophia had flown ; and all the answers which she artfully drew 
from Jones, concerning Mr Allworthy’s family, confirmed her 
in this opinion. She therefore strictly denied any knowledge 
concerning the place whither Sophia was gone; nor could Jones 
obtain more than a permission to wait on her again the next 
day. 

When Jones was departed Mrs Fitzpatrick communicated 
her suspicion concerning Mr Blifil to her maid; w T ho answered, 
“Sure, madam, he is too pretty a man, in my opinion, for any 
woman in the world to run away from. I had rather fancy 
it is Mr Jones.” 

“Mr Jones!” said the lady, “what Jones?” For Sophia had 
not given the least hint of any such person in all their conversa- 
tion ; but Mrs Honour had been much more communicative, and 
had acquainted her sister Abigail with the whole history of 
Jones, which this now again related to her mistress. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick no sooner received this information, than 
she immediately agreed with the opinion of her maid ; and, what 
is very unaccountable, saw charms in the gallant, happy lover, 
which she had overlooked in the slighted squire. 

“Betty,” says she, “you are certainly in the right : he is a 
very pretty fellow, and I don’t wonder that my cousin’s maid 
should tell you so many women are fond of him. I am sorry 
now I did not inform him where my cousin was; and yet, 
if he be so terrible a rake as you tell me, it is a pity she should 
ever see him any more ; for what but her ruin can happen from 
marrying a rake and a beggar against her father’s consent?” 

When Mrs Fitzpatrick retired to rest, her thoughts were en- 
tirely taken up by her cousin Sophia and Mr Jones. In which 
meditation she had not long exercised her imagination before 
the following conceit suggested itself; that could she possibly 
become the means of preserving Sophia from this man, and 
of restoring her to her father, she should, in all human prob- 
ability, by so great a service to the family, reconcile to herself 
both her uncle and her aunt Western. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


279 

If the reader will please to remember that the acquaintance 
which Sophia had with Lady Bellaston was contracted at the 
house of Mrs Western, and must have grown at the very time 
when Mrs Fitzpatrick lived with this latter lady, he will want 
no information, that Mrs Fitzpatrick must have been acquainted 
with her likewise. They were, besides, both equally her dis- 
tant relations. 

After much consideration, therefore, she resolved to go early 
in the morning to that lady, and endeavour to see her, unknown 
to Sophia, and to acquaint her with the whole affair. This reso- 
lution she accordingly executed ; and the next morning before 
the sun, she huddled on her clothes, and at a very unfashion- 
able, unseasonable, unvisitable hour, went to Lady Bellaston, to 
whom she got access, without the least knowledge or sus- 
picion of Sophia, who, though not asleep, lay at that time awake 
in her bed, with Honour snoring by her side. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick made many apologies for an early, abrupt 
visit, at an hour w T hen, she said, she should not have thought 
of disturbing her ladyship, but upon business of the utmost con- 
sequence. She then opened the whole affair, told all she had 
heard from Betty; and did not forget the visit which Jones 
had paid to herself the preceding evening. 

Lady Bellaston answered with a smile, “Then you have seen 
this terrible man, madam; pray, is he so very fine a figure as 
he is represented? for Etoff entertained me last night almost 
two hours with him. The wench I believe is in love with him 
by reputation.” 

Here the reader will be apt to wonder; but the truth is, that 
Mrs Etoff, who had the honour to pin and unpin the Lady 
Bellaston, had received compleat information concerning the 
said Mr Jones, and had faithfully conveyed the same to her 
lady last night (or rather that morning) while she was un- 
dressing; on which accounts she had been detained in her 
office above the space of an hour and a half. 

The lady indeed, though generally well enough pleased with 
the narratives of Mrs Etoff at those seasons, gave an extra- 
ordinary attention to her account of Jones ; for Honour had de- 
scribed him as a very handsome fellow, and Mrs Etoff, in her 
hurry, added so much to the beauty of his person to her report, 
that Lady Bellaston began to conceive him to be a kind of 
miracle in nature. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


280 

The curiosity which her woman had inspired was now 
greatly increased by Mrs Fitzpatrick, who spoke as much in 
favour of the person of Jones as she had before spoken in 
dispraise of his birth, character, and fortune. 

When Lady Bellaston had heard the whole, she answered 
gravely, “Indeed, madam, this is a matter of great consequence. 
Nothing can certainly be more commendable than the part you 
act; and I shall be very glad to have my share in the preserva- 
tion of a young lady of so much merit, for whom I have so much 
esteem.” 

“Doth not your ladyship think,” says Mrs Fitzpatrick eagerly, * 
“that it would be the best way to write immediately to my 
uncle, and acquaint him where my cousin is?” 

The lady pondered a little upon this, and thus answered — 
“Why, no, madam, I think not. Di Western hath described 
her brother to me to be such a brute, that I cannot consent to 
put any woman under his power who hath escaped from it. 
The business, dear cousin, will be only to keep Miss Western 
from seeing this young fellow, till the good company, which 
she will have an opportunity of meeting here, give her a 
properer turn.” 

“If he should find her out, madam,” answered the other, 
“your ladyship may be assured he will leave nothing unat- 
tempted to come at her.” 

“But, madam,” replied the lady, “it is impossible he should 
come here — though indeed it is possible he may get some in- 
telligence where she is, and then may lurk about the house — I 
wish therefore I knew his person. Is there no way, madam, by 
which I could have a sight of him? for, otherwise, you know, 
cousin, she may contrive to see him here without my knowl- 
edge.” 

Mrs Fitzpatrick answered, that he had threatened her with 
another visit that afternoon, and that, if her ladyship pleased 
to do her the honour of calling upon her then, she would 
hardly fail of seeing him between six and seven. 

Lady Bellaston replied, she would come the moment she 
could get from dinner, which she supposed would be by seven at 
farthest; for that it was absolutely necessary she should be ac- 
quainted with his person. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick thereupon, after some little immaterial 
conversation, withdrew; and, getting as fast as she could into 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


281 

her chair, unseen by Sophia or Honour, returned home, where 
at the appointed hour, she received Mr Jones very civilly; but 
still persisted in her ignorance concerning Sophia. 

The door of the room now flew open, and, after pushing 
in her hoop sideways before her, entered Lady Bellaston, who 
having first made a very low courtesy to Mrs Fitzpatrick, and 
as low a one to Mr Jones, was ushered to the upper end of the 
room. 

The company were hardly well settled, before the arrival of 
the peer lately mentioned, caused a fresh disturbance, and a 
repetition of ceremonials. 

These being over, the conversation began to be (as the phrase 
is) extremely brilliant. However, as nothing past in it which 
can be thought material to this history, or, indeed, very material 
in itself, I shall omit the relation; the rather, as I have known 
some very fine polite conversation grow extremely dull, when 
transcribed into books, or repeated on the stage. 

Poor Jones was rather a spectator of this elegant scene, than 
an actor in it; for though, in the short interval before the peer’s 
arrival, Lady Bellaston first and afterwards Mrs Fitzpatrick, 
had addressed some of their discourse to him ; yet no sooner was 
the noble lord entered, than he engrossed the whole attention of 
the two ladies to himself; and as he took no more notice of 
Jones than if no such person had been present, unless by now 
and then staring at him, the ladies followed his example. 

The company had now staid so long, that Mrs Fitzpatrick 
plainly perceived they all designed to stay out each other. She 
therefore resolved to rid herself of Jones, he being the visitant 
to whom she thought the least ceremony was due. Taking 
therefore an opportunity of a cessation of chat, she addressed 
herself gravely to him, and said, “Sir, I shall not possibly be 
able to give you an answer to-night as to that business; but if 
you please to leave word where I may send to you to- 
morrow ” 

Jones had natural, but not artificial good-breeding. Instead 
therefore of communicating the secret of his lodgings to a serv- 
ant, he acquainted the lady herself with it particularly, and 
soon after very ceremoniously withdrew. 

The next morning, as early as it was decent, he attended at 
Mrs Fitzpatrick’s door, where he was answered that the lady 
was not at home; an answer which surprized him the more, as 


282 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


he had walked backwards and forwards in the street from 
break of day; and if she had gone out, he must have seen her. 
This answer, however, he was obliged to receive, and not only 
now, but to five several visits which he made her that day. 

To be plain with the reader, the noble peer had from some 
reason or other, perhaps from a regard for the lady’s honour, 
insisted that she should not see Mr Jones, whom he looked on 
as a scrub, any more ; and the lady had complied in making that 
promise to which we now see her so strictly adhere. 

But as our gentle reader may possibly have a better opinion 
of the young gentleman than her ladyship, and may even have 
some concern, should it be apprehended that, during this un- 
happy separation from Sophia, he took up his residence either 
at an inn, or in the street; we shall now give an account of his 
lodging, which was indeed in a very reputable house, and in a 
very good part of the town. 

Mr Jones, then, had often heard Mr Allworthy mention the 
gentlewoman at whose house he used to lodge when he was in 
town, and whom he had assisted in many ways. This person, 
who, as Jones likewise knew, lived in Bond-street, was the 
widow of a clergyman, and was left by him, at his decease, in 
posession of two daughters, and of a compleat set of manuscript 
sermons. Of these two daughters, Nancy, the elder, was now 
arrived at the age of seventeen, and Betty, the younger, at that 
of ten. 

Hither Jones had despatched Partridge, and in this house he 
was provided with a room for himself in the second floor, and 
with one for Partridge in the fourth. 

The first floor was inhabited by one of those young gentle- 
men, who, in the last age, were called men of wit and pleasure 
about town, and properly enough; for as men are usually de- 
nominated from their business or profession, so pleasure may be 
said to have been the only business or profession of those gentle- 
men to whom fortune had made all useful occupations un- 
necessary. 

When Jones had spent the whole day in vain enquiries after 
Mrs Fitzpatrick, he returned at last disconsolate to his apart- 
ment. Here, while he was venting his grief in private, he heard 
a violent uproar below-stairs ; and soon after a female voice 
begged him for heaven’s sake to come and prevent murder. 
Jones, who was never backward on any occasion to help the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


283 

distressed, immediately ran down-stairs; when stepping into the 
dining-room, whence all the noise issued, he beheld the young 
gentleman of wisdom and vertu just before mentioned, pinned 
close to the wall by his footman, whom he had attempted to 
chastise for insolence, and a young woman standing by, wring- 
ing her hands, and crying out, “He will be murdered! he will 
be murdered!” and, indeed, the poor gentleman seemed in some 
danger of being choked, when Jones flew hastily to his assist- 
ance, and rescued him, just as he was breathing his last, from 
the unmerciful clutches of the enemy. 

And now the young gentleman, whose name was Nightingale, 
very strenuously insisted that his deliverer should take part of a 
bottle of wine with him ; to which Jones, after much entreaty, 
consented, though more out of complacence than inclination ; 
for the uneasiness of his mind fitted him very little for con- 
versation at this time. Miss Nancy likewise, who was the 
only female then in the house, her mamma and sister being both 
gone to the play, condescended to favour them with her com- 
pany. 

Our company had not sat long before they were joined by 
the mother and daughter, at their return from the play. And 
now they all spent a very chearful evening together; for all 
but Jones were heartily merry, and even he put on as much 
constrained mirth as possible. Indeed, half his natural 
flow of animal spirits, joined to the sweetness of his temper, was 
sufficient to make a most amiable companion; and notwith- 
standing the heaviness of his heart, so agreeable did he make 
himself on the present occasion, that, at their breaking up, the 
young gentleman earnestly desired his further acquaintance. 
Miss Nancy was well pleased with him; and the widow, quite 
charmed with her new lodger, invited him, with the other, next 
morning to breakfast. 

Jones on his part was no less satisfied. As for Miss Nancy, 
though a very little creature, she was extremely pretty, and the 
widow had all the charms which can adorn a woman near fifty. 
As she was one of the most innocent creatures in the world, so 
she was one of the most chearful. 

Nor was Jones a little pleased with the young gentleman 
himself, whose wine he had been drinking. He thought he dis- 
cerned in him much good sense, though a little too much tainted 
with town-foppery; but what recommended him most to Jones 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


284 

were some sentiments of great generosity and humanity, which 
occasionally dropt from him; and particularly many expressions 
of the highest disinterestedness in the affair of love. 

Our company brought together in the morning the same 
good inclinations towards each other, with which they had 
separated the evening before ; but poor Jones was extremely dis- 
consolate; for he had just received information from Partridge, 
that Mrs Fitzpatrick had left her lodging, and that he could 
not learn whither she was gone. This news highly afflicted 
him, and his countenance, as well as his behaviour, in defiance 
cf all his endeavours to the contrary, betrayed manifest indica- 
tions of a disordered mind. 

The discourse turned at present on love; and Mr Nightin- 
gale again expressed many of those warm, generous, and disin- 
terested sentiments upon this subject, which wise and sober men 
call romantic, but which wise and sober women generally re- 
gard in a better light. Mrs Miller (for so the mistress of the 
house was called) greatly approved these sentiments; but when 
the young gentleman appealed to Miss Nancy, she answered 
only, that she believed the gentleman who had spoke the least 
was capable of feeling most. 

This compliment was so apparently directed to Jones, that we 
should have been sorry had he passed it by unregarded. He 
made her indeed a very polite answer, and concluded with an 
oblique hint, that her own silence subjected her to a suspicion 
of the same kind: for indeed she had scarce opened her lips 
either now or the last evening. 

“I am glad, Nanny,” says Mrs Miller, “the gentleman hath 
made the observation; I protest I am almost of his opinion. 
What can be the matter with you, child? I never saw such an 
alteration. What is become of all your gaiety? Would you 
think, sir, I used to call her my little prattler? She hath not 
spoke twenty words this week.” 

Here their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a 
maid-servant, who brought a bundle in her hand, which, she 
said, was delivered by a porter for Mr Jones. She added that 
the man immediately went away, saying, it required no answer. 

Jones expressed some surprize on this occasion, and declared 
it must be some mistake; but the maid persisting that she was 
certain of the name, all the women were desirous of having the 
bundle immediately opened: which operation was at length 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


285 

performed by little Betsy, with the consent of Mr Jones: and 
the contents were . found to be a domino, a mask, and a mas- 
querade ticket. 

Jones was now more positive than ever in asserting, that 
these things must have been delivered by mistake; and Mrs 
Miller herself expressed some doubt. But when Mr Nightin- 
gale was asked, he delivered a very different opinion. 

“All I can conclude from it, sir,” said he, “is, that you are 
a very happy man; for I make no doubt but these were sent 
you by some lady whom you will have the happiness of meeting 
at the masquerade.” 

Jones had not a sufficient degree of vanity to entertain any 
such flattering imagination ; nor did Mrs Miller herself give 
much assent to what Mr Nightingale had said, till Miss 
Nancy having lifted up the domino, a card dropt from the 
sleeve, in which was written as follows : — 

To Mr Jones. 

The queen of the fairies sends you this; 

Use her favours not amiss. 

Mrs Miller and Miss Nancy now both agreed with Mr 
Nightingale; nay, Jones himself was almost persuaded to be 
of the same opinion. And as no other lady but Mrs Fitz- 
patrick, he thought, knew his lodging, he began to flatter him- 
self with some hopes, that it came from her, and that he might 
possibly see his Sophia. 

This was sufficient instantly to determine him to go to the 
masquerade that evening, and Mr Nightingale offered to conduct 
him thither. The young gentleman, at the same time, offered 
tickets to Miss Nancy and her mother; but the good woman 
would not accept them. She said, she did not conceive the 
harm which some people imagined in a masquerade; but that 
such extravagant diversions were proper only for persons of 
quality and fortune, and not for young women who were to 
get their living, and could, at best, hope to be married to a 
good tradesman. 

“A tradesman!” cries Nightingale, “you shan’t undervalue 
my Nancy. There is not a nobleman upon earth above her 
merit.” 


286 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“O fie! Mr Nightingale,” answered Mrs Miller, “you must 
not fill the girl’s head with such fancies: but if it was her good 
luck” (says the mother with a simper) “to find a gentleman 
of your generous way of thinking, I hope she would make a 
better return to his generosity than to give her mind up to 
extravagant pleasures. I beg, therefore, I may hear of no more 
masquerades. Nancy is, I am certain, too good a girl to desire 
to go ; for she must remember when you carried her thither last 
year, it almost turned her head ; and she did not return to her- 
self, or to her needle, in a month afterwards.” 

Though a gentle sigh, which stole from the bosom of Nancy, 
seemed to argue some secret disapprobation of these sentiments, 
she did not dare openly to oppose them. For as this good 
woman had all the tenderness, so she had preserved all the au- 
thority of a parent, and this the young gentleman, who had 
lodged two years in the house, knew so well, that he presently 
acquiesced in the refusal. 

Mr Nightingale, who grew every minute fonder of Jones, 
was very desirous of his company that day to dinner at the 
tavern, where he offered to introduce him to some of his ac- 
quaintance; but Jones begged to be excused, as his clothes, he 
said, were not yet come to town. 

To confess the truth, Mr Jones was now in a situation, which 
sometimes happens to be the case of young gentlemen of much 
better figure than himself. In short, he had not one penny in 
his pocket ; a situation in much greater credit among the ancient 
philosophers than among the modern "wise men who live in 
Lombard-street, or those who frequent Wliite’s chocolate-house. 

Notwithstanding, therefore, all the delicacies which love had 
set before him, namely, the hopes of seeing Sophia at the mas- 
querade; on which, however ill-founded his imagination might 
be, he had voluptuously feasted during the whole day, the 
evening no sooner came than Mr Jones began to languish for 
some food of a grosser kind. Partridge discovered this by in- 
tuition, and took the occasion to give some oblique hints con- 
cerning the bank-bill; and,* when these were rejected with dis- 
dain, he collected courage enough once more to mention a return 
home. 

“How often shall I tell thee,” answered Jones, “that I have 
no home to return to? Had I any hopes that Mr Allworthy’s 
doors would be open to receive me, I want no distress to urge 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


287 

me n ay, there is no other cause upon earth, which could detain 
me a moment from flying to his presence; but, alas! that I am 
for ever banished from. His last words were — O, Partridge, 
they still ring in my ears — his last words were, when he gave 
me a sum of money — what it was I know not, but considerable 
I m sure it was — his last words were — ‘I am resolved from this 
day forward, on no account to converse, with you any more.’ ” 
Here passion stopt the mouth of Jones, as surprize for a mo- 

I - ment did that of Partridge; but he soon recovered the use of 
speech, and after a short preface, in which he declared he had no 
inquisitiveness in his temper, enquired what Jones meant by a 
considerable sum — he knew not how much — and what was be- 
j come of the money. 

In both these points he now received full satisfaction; on 
which he was proceeding to comment, when he was interrupted 
! by a message from Mr Nightingale, who desired his master’s 
company in his apartment. 

When the two gentlemen were both attired for the mas- 
querade, and Mr Nightingale had given orders for chairs to be 
sent for, a circumstance of distress occurred to Jones, which 
I will appear very ridiculous to many of my readers. This was 
j how to procure a shilling; but if such readers will reflect a little 
on what they have themselves felt from the want of a thousand 
pounds, or, perhaps, of ten or twenty, to execute a favourite 
scheme, they will have a perfect idea of w T hat Mr Jones felt on 
I this occasion. For this sum, therefore, he applied to Partridge, 
which w T as the first he had permitted him to advance, and was 
the last he intended that poor fellow should advance in his 
service. To say the truth, Partridge had lately made no offer 
of this kind. Whether it was that he desired to see the bank- 
bill broke in upon, or that distress should prevail on Jones to 
return home, or from what other motive it proceeded, I will 
not determine. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

■ 

Containing the whole humours of a masquerade . 

QUR cavaliers now arrived at that temple, where Heydegger, | 
the great Arbiter Deliciarum, the great high-priest of 
pleasure, presides ; and, like other heathen priests, imposes on his 
votaries by the pretended presence of the deity, when in reality : 
no such deity is there. 

Mr Nightingale, having taken a turn or two with his com- 
panion, soon left him, and walked off with a female, saying, 
“Now you are here, sir, you must beat about for your own 
game.” 

Jones began to entertain strong hopes that his Sophia was 
present; and these hopes gave him more spirits than the lights, 
the music, and the company; though these are pretty strong 
antidotes against the spleen. He now accosted every woman 
he saw, whose stature, shape, or air, bore any resemblance to his i 
angel. To all of whom he endeavoured to say something smart, 
in order to engage an answer, by which he might discover that 
voice which he thought it impossible he should mistake. Some 
of these answered by a question, in a squeaking voice, “Do you 
know me ?” Much the greater number said, “I don’t know you, j 
sir,” and nothing more; and many gave him as kind answers as j 
he could wish, but not in the voice he desired to hear. 

Whilst he was talking with one of these last (who was in the 
habit of a shepherdess) a lady in a domino came up to him, and 
slapping him on the shoulder, whispered him, at the same time, ; 
in the ear, “If you talk any longer with that trollop, I will ac- 
quaint Miss Western.” 

Jones no sooner heard that name, than, immediately quitting 
his former companion, he applied to the domino, begging and en- 
treating her to show him the lady she had mentioned, if she 
was then in the room. 

The mask walked hastily to the upper end of the innermost 
apartment before she ..spoke; and then, instead of answering him, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


289 

sat down, and declared she was tired. Jones sat down by her, 
and still persisted in his entreaties. 

At last the lady coldly answered, “I imagined Mr Jones had 
been a more discerning lover, than to suffer any disguise to con- 
ceal his mistress from him.” 

“Is she here, then, madam?” replied Jones, with some 
vehemence. 

Upon which the lady cried — “Hush, sir, you will be observed. 
I promise you, upon my honour, Miss Western is not here.” 

Jones, now taking the mask by the hand, fell to entreating 
her in the most earnest manner, to acquaint him where he 
might find Sophia : and when he could obtain no direct answer, 
he began to upbraid her gently for having disappointed him the 
day before; and concluded, saying, “Indeed, my good fairy queen, 
I know your majesty very well, notwithstanding the affected 
disguise of your voice. Indeed, Mrs Fitzpatrick, it is a little 
cruel to divert yourself at the expense of my torments.” 

The mask answered, “Though you have so ingeniously dis- 
covered me, I must still speak in the same voice, lest I should 
be known by others. And do you think, good sir, that I have no 
greater regard for my cousin, than to assist in carrying on an 
affair between you two, which must end in her ruin, as well as 
your own?” 

“No, madam,” protested Jones, “my love is not of that base 
kind which seeks its own satisfaction at the expense of what is 
most dear to its object. I would sacrifice everything to the 
possession of my Sophia, but Sophia herself.” 

The lady now, after silence of a few moments, said, she did 
not see his pretensions to Sophia so much in the light of pre- 
sumption, as of imprudence. 

“Young fellows,” says she, “can never have too aspiring 
thoughts. I love ambition in a young man, and I would have 
you cultivate it as much as possible. Perhaps you may succeed 
with those who are infinitely superior in fortune; nay, I am 

convinced there are women but don’t you think me a strange 

creature, Mr Jones, to be thus giving advice to a man with 
whom I am so little acquainted, and one with whose behaviour 
to me I have so little reason to be pleased?” 

Here Jones began to apologize, and to hope he had not of- 
fended in anything he had said of her cousin. — To which the 
mask answered, “And are you so little versed in the sex, to 


290 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


imagine you can well affront a lady more than by entertaining 
her with your passion for another woman? If the fairy queen 
had conceived no better opinion of your gallantry, she would 
scarce have appointed you to meet her at the masquerade.” 

Jones had never less inclination to an amour than at present; 
but gallantry to the ladies was among his principles of honour; 
and he held it as much incumbent on him to accept a challenge 
to love, as if it had been a challenge to fight. Nay, his very 
love to Sophia made it necessary for him to keep well with the 
lady, as he made no doubt but she was capable of bringing him 
into the presence of the other. He began therefore to make a 
very warm answer to her last speech, and ended by demanding 
to be permitted to accompany her home. 

“Sure,” answered the lady, “you have a strange opinion of 
me, to imagine, that upon such an acquaintance, I would let 
you into my doors at this time of night. I fancy you impute 
the friendship I have shown my cousin to some other motive. 
Confess honestly; don’t you consider this contrived interview 
as little better than a downright assignation? Are you used, 
Mr Jones, to make these sudden conquests?” 

“I am not used, madam,” said Jones, “to submit to such 
sudden conquests; but as you have taken my heart by surprize, 
the rest of my body hath a right to follow ; so you must pardon 
me if I resolve to attend you wherever you go.” 

He accompanied these words with some proper actions; upon 
which the lady, after a gentle rebuke, and saying their familiar- 
ity would be observed, told him she was going to sup with an 
acquaintance, whither she hoped he would not follow her; “for 
if you should,” said she, “I shall be thought an unaccountable 
creature, though my friend indeed is not censorious; yet I hope 
you won’t follow me ; I protest I shall not know what to say if 
you do.” 

The lady presently after quitted the masquerade, and Jones, 
notwithstanding the severe prohibition he had reecived, pre- 
sumed to attend her. He was now reduced to the same di- 
lemma we have mentioned before, namely, the want of a shilling, 
and could not relieve it by borrowing as before. He therefore 
walked boldly on after the chair in which his lady rode, pur- 
sued by a grand huzza, from all the chairmen present, who wisely 
take the best care they can to discountenance all walking afoot 
by their betters. Luckily, however, the gentry who attend at the 










i 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


291 


Opera-house were too busy to quit their stations, and as the 
lateness of the hour prevented him from meeting many of their 
brethren in the street, he proceeded without molestation, in a 
dress, which, at another season, would have certainly raised a 
mob at his heels. 

The lady was set down in a street not far from Hanover- 
square, where the door being presently opened, she was carried 
in, and the gentleman, without any ceremony, walked in after 
her. 

Jones and his companion were now together in a very well- 
furnished and well-warmed room; when the female, still speak- 
ing in her masquerade voice, said she was surprized at her friend, 
who must absolutely have forgot her appointment; at which, 
after venting much resentment, she suddenly exprest some ap- 
prehension from Jones, and asked him what the world would 
think of their having been alone together in a house at that 
time of night? But instead of a direct answer to so important 
a question, Jones began to be very importunate with the lady 
to unmask; and at length having prevailed, there appeared not 
Mrs Fitzpatrick, but the Lady Bellaston herself. 

It would be tedious to give the particular conversation, which 
consisted of very common and ordinary occurrences, and which 
lasted from two till six o’clock in the morning. It is sufficient 
to mention all of it that is anywise material to this history. 
And this was a promise that the lady would endeavour to find 
out Sophia, and in a few days bring him to an interview with 
her, on condition that he would then take his leave of her. 
When this was thoroughly settled, and a second meeting in the 
evening appointed at the same place, they separated ; the lady 
returned to her house, and Jones to his lodgings. 

There, having refreshed himself with a few hours’ sleep, he 
summoned Partridge to his presence; and delivering him a 
bank-note of fifty pounds, ordered him to go and change it. Par- 
tridge received this with sparkling eyes, though, when he came 
to reflect farther, it raised in him some suspicions not very ad- 
vantageous to the honour of his master: to these the dreadful 
idea he had of the masquerade, the disguise in which his master 
had gone out and returned, and his having been abroad all night, 
contributed. In plain language, the only way he could possibly 
find to account for the possession of this note, was by robbery : 
and, to confess the truth, the reader, unless he should suspect 


292 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


it was owing to the generosity of Lady Bellaston, can hardly 
imagine any other. 

To clear, therefore, the honour of Mr Jones, and to do jus- 
tice to the liberality of the lady, he had really received this pres- 
ent from her, who, though she did not give much into the 
hackney charities of the age, such as building hospitals, &c., was 
not, however, entirely void of that Christian virtue; and con- 
ceived (very rightly I' think) that a young fellow of merit, 
without a shilling in the world, was no improper object of 
this virtue. 

In the evening Jones met his lady again, and a long conver- : 
sation again ensued between them : but as it consisted only of the 
same ordinary occurrences as before, we shall avoid mentioning 
particulars, which we despair of rendering agreeable to the read- j 
er ; unless he is one whose devotion to the fair sex, like that of the 
papists to their saints, wants to be raised by the help of pictures. 
But I am so far from desiring to exhibit such pictures to the 
public, that I would wish to draw a curtain over those that have 
been lately set forth in certain French novels; very bungling 
copies of which have been presented us here under the name of 
translations. 

Jones grew still more and more impatient to see Sophia; and 
finding, after repeated interviews with Lady Bellaston, no like- 
lihood of obtaining this by her means (for, on the contrary, the 
lady began to treat even the mention of the name of Sophia with 
resentment), he resolved to try some other method. He made 
no doubt but that Lady Bellaston knew where his angel was, 
so he thought it most likely that some of her servants should 
be acquainted with the same secret. Partridge therefore was 
employed to get acquainted with those servants, in order to fish 
this secret out of them. 

Few situations can be imagined more uneasy than that to 
which his poor master was at present reduced; for besides the 
difficulties he met with in discovering Sophia, besides the fears 
he had of having disobliged her, and the assurances he had re- 
ceived from Lady Bellaston of the resolution which Sophia had 
taken against him, and of her having purposely concealed her- 
self from him, which he had sufficient reason to believe might be 
true ; he had still a difficulty to combat which it was not in the 
power of his mistress to remove, however kind her inclination 
might have been. This was the exposing of her to be disinher- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM. JONES. 


293 


ited of all her father’s estate, the almost inevitable consequence 
of their coming together without a consent, which he had no 
hopes of ever obtaining. 

Add to all these the many obligations which Lady Bellaston, 
whose violent fondness we can no longer conceal, had heaped 
upon him ; so that by her means he was now become one of the 
best-dressed men about town; and was not only relieved from 
those ridiculous distresses we have before mentioned, but was 
actually raised to a state of affluence beyond what he had ever 
known. 

He knew the tacit consideration upon which all her favours 
were conferred; and as his necessity obliged him to accept 
them, so his honour, he concluded, forced him to pay the price. 
This therefore he resolved to do, whatever misery it cost him, 
and to devote himself to her, from that great principle of jus- 
tice, by which the laws of some countries oblige a debtor, who 
is not otherwise capable of discharging his debt, to become the 
slave of his creditor. 

While he was meditating on these matters, he received the 
following note from the lady: — 

“A very foolish, but a very perverse accident hath happened 
since our last meeting, which makes it improper I should see 
you any more at the usual place. I will, if possible, contrive 
some other place by to-morrow. In the meantime, adieu.” 

This disappointment, perhaps, the reader may conclude was 
not very great ; but if it was, he was quickly relieved ; for in 
less than an hour afterwards another note was brought him 
from the same hand, which contained as follows: — 

“I have altered my mind since I wrote; a change which, if 
you are no stranger to the tenderest of all passions, you will not 
wonder at. I am now resolved to see you this evening at my own 
house, whatever may be the consequence. Come to me exactly 
at seven ; I dine abroad, but will be at home by that time. A 
day, I find, to those that sincerely love, seems longer than I 
imagined. 

“If you should accidentally be a few moments before me, bid 
them show you into the drawing-room.” 

Before we attend him to this intended interview with the 
lady, we think proper to account for both the preceding notes, 


294 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


as the reader may possibly be not a little surprized at the im- 
prudence of Lady Bellaston, in bringing her lover to the very 
house where her rival was lodged. 

First, then, the mistress of the house where these lovers had 
hitherto met, and who had been for some years a pensioner to 
that lady, was now become a Methodist, and had that very 
morning waited upon her ladyship, and after rebuking her 
very severely for her past life, had positively declared that she 
would, on no account, be instrumental in carrying on any of her 
affairs for the future. 

The hurry of spirits into which this accident threw the lady 
made her despair of possibly finding any other convenience to 
meet Jones that evening; but as she began a little to recover 
from her uneasiness at the disappointment, she set her thoughts 
to work, when luckily it came into her head to propose to 
Sophia to go to the play, which was immediately consented to, 
and a proper lady provided for her companion. Mrs Honour 
was likewise despatched with Mrs Etoff on the same errand of 
pleasure; and thus her own house was left free for the safe 
reception of Mr Jones, with whom she promised herself two or 
three hours of uninterrupted conversation. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

In which the reader will be surprized . 

JONES was rather earlier than the time appointed, and 
earlier than the lady; whose arrival was hindered, not only 
by the distance of the place where she dined, but by some other 
cross accidents very vexatious to one in her situation of mind. 
He was accordingly shown into the drawing-room, where he 
had not been many minutes before the door opened, and in 
came — no other than Sophia herself, who had left the play be- 
fore the end of the first act ; for this, being a new play, at which 
two large parties met, the one to damn and the other to applaud, 
a violent uproar, and an engagement between the two parties, 
had so terrified our heroine, that she was glad to put herself 
under the protection of a young gentleman who safely conveyed 
her to her chair. 

As Lady Bellaston had acquainted her that she should not be 
at home till late, Sophia, expecting to find no one in the room, 
came hastily in, and went directly to a glass which almost 
fronted her, without once looking towards the upper end of the 
room, where the statue of Jones now stood motionless. In this 
glass it was, after contemplating her own lovely face, that she 
first discovered the said statue; when, instantly turning about, 
she perceived the reality of the vision: upon which she gave a 
violent scream, and scarce preserved herself from fainting, till 
Jones was able to move to her, and support her in his arms. 

After a short pause, Jones, with faltering accents, said — “I 
see, madam, you are surprized.” 

“Surprized!” answered she; “Oh heavens! Indeed, I am sur- 
prized. I almost doubt whether you are the person you seem.” 

“Indeed,” cries he, “my Sophia — pardon me, madam, for this 
•once calling you so — I am that very wretched Jones, whom for- 
tune, after so many disappointments, hath, at last, kindly con- 
ducted to you. Oh! my Sophia, did you know the thousand 
torments I have suffered in this long, fruitless pursuit.” 


296 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Pursuit of whom?” said Sophia, a little recollecting herself, 
and assuming a reserved air. 

“Can you be so cruel to ask that question?” cries Jones; 
“Need I say, of you?” 

“Of me!” answered Sophia: “Hath Mr Jones, then, any 
such important business with me?” 

“To some, madam,” cried Jones, “this might seem an impor- 
tant business” (giving her the pocket-book). “I hope, madam, 
you will find it of the same value as when it was lost.” 

Sophia took the pocket-book, and was going to speak, when he 
interrupted her thus: — “Let us not, I beseech you, lose one of 
these precious moments wdiich fortune hath so kindly sent us. 
O, my Sophia! I have business of a much superior kind. Thus, 
on my knees, let me ask your pardon.” 

“My pardon!” cries she; “Sure, sir, after what is past, you 
cannot expect, after what I heard.” 

“I scarce know what I say,” answered Jones. “By heavens! 
I scarce wish you should pardon me. O my Sophia! henceforth 
never cast away a thought on such a wretch as I am. If any 
remembrance of me should ever intrude to give a moment’s un- 
easiness to that tender bosom, think of my unworthiness; and 
let the remembrance of what passed at Upton blot me for ever 
from your mind.” 

Sophia stood trembling all this while. Her face was whiter 
than snow, and her heart was throbbing through her stays. 
But, at the mention of Upton, a blush arose in her cheeks, and 
her eyes, which before she had scarce lifted up, were turned 
upon Jones with a glance of disdain. 

He understood this silent reproach, and replied to it thus: 
“O my Sophia! my only love! you cannot hate or despise me 
more for what happened there than I do myself; but yet do me 
the justice to think that my heart was never unfaithful to you. 
That had no share in the folly I was guilty of ; it was even then 
unalterably yours. Though I despaired of possessing you, nay, 
almost of ever seeing you more, I doated still on your charming 
idea, and could seriously love no other woman. But if my 
heart had not been engaged, she, into whose company I ac- 
cidentally fell at that cursed place, was not an object of seri- 
ous love. Believe me, my angel, I never have seen her from 
that day to this ; and never intend or desire to see her again.” 

Sophia, in her heart, was very glad to hear this; but forcing 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


297 

into her face an air of more coldness than she had yet assumed, 
Why, said she, “Mr Jones, do you take the trouble to make 
a defence where you are not accused? If I thought it worth 
while to accuse you, I have a charge of unpardonable nature in- 
deed.” 

What is it, for heaven’s sake?” answered Jones, trembling 
and pale, expecting to hear of his amour with Lady Bellaston. 

“Oh,” said she, “how is it possible! can everything noble and 
everything base be lodged together in the same bosom?” 

Lady Bellaston, and the ignominious circumstance of having 
been kept, rose again in his mind, and stopt his mouth from 
any reply. 

“Could I have expected,” proceeded Sophia, “such treatment 
from you? Nay, from any gentleman, from any man of hon- 
our? To have my name traduced in public; in inns, among the 
meanest vulgar ! to have any little favours that my unguarded 
heart may have too lightly betrayed me to grant, boasted of 
there! nay, even to hear that you had been forced to fly from 
my love!” 

Nothing could equal Jones’s surprize at these words of 
Sophia; but yet, not being guilty, he was much less embarrassed 
how to defend himself than if she had touched that tender string 
at which his conscience had been alarmed. By some examination 
he presently found, that her supposing him guilty of so shocking 
an outrage against his love, and her reputation, was entirely 
owing to Partridge’s talk at the inns before landlords and serv- 
ants; for Sophia confessed to him it was from them she re- 
ceived her intelligence. He had no very great difficulty to 
make her believe that he was entirely innocent of an offence 
so foreign to his character; but she had a great deal to hinder 
him from going instantly home, and putting Partridge to death, 
which he more than once swore he would do. 

This point being cleared up, they soon found themselves so 
well pleased with each other, that Jones quite forgot he had 
begun the conversation with conjuring her to give up all 
thoughts of him; and she was in a temper to have given ear to 
a petition of a very different nature ; for before they were aware 
they had both gone so far, that he let fall some words that 
sounded like a proposal of marriage. To which she replied, 
that, did not her duty to her father forbid her to follow her own 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


298 

inclinations, ruin with him would be more welcome to her than 
the most affluent fortune with another man. 

At this mention of the word ruin, he started, let drop her 
hand, which he had held for some time ; when, at once, the door 
opened, and in came Lady Bellaston. 

Having advanced a few steps, and seeing Jones and Sophia 
together, she suddenly stopt; when, after a pause of a few mo- 
ments, recollecting herself with admirable presence of mind, she 
said — though with sufficient indications of surprize both in 
voice and countenance — “I thought, Miss Western, you had 
been at the play?” 

Though Sophia had no opportunity of learning of Jones by 
what means he had discovered her, yet, as she had not the least 
suspicion of the real truth, or that Jones and Lady Bellaston 
were acquainted, so she was very little confounded; and the 
less, as the lady had, in all their conversations on the subject, 
entirely taken her side against her father. With very little hesi- 
tation, therefore, she went through the whole story of what had 
happened at the play-house, and the cause of her hasty return. 

The length of this narrative gave Lady Bellaston an oppor- 
tunity of rallying her spirits, and of considering in what manner 
to act. And as the behaviour of Sophia gave her hopes that 
Jones had not betrayed her, she put on an air of good humour, 
and said, “I should not have broke in so abruptly upon you, 
Miss Western, if I had known you had company.” 

Lady Bellaston fixed her eyes on Sophia whilst she spoke these 
words. To which that poor young lady, having her face over- 
spread with blushes and confusion, answered, in a stammering 
voice, “I am sure, madam, I shall always think the honour of 
your ladyship’s company ” 

“I hope, at least,” cries Lady Bellaston,. “I interrupt no busi- 
ness.” 

“No, madam,” answered Sophia, “our business was at an 
end. Your ladyship may be pleased to remember I have often 
mentioned the loss of my pocket-book, which this gentleman, 
having very luckily found, was so kind to return it to me with 
the bill in it.” 

Jones, ever since the arrival of Lady Bellaston, had been 
ready to sink with fear. He sat kicking his heels, playing with 
his fingers, and looking more like a fool, if it be possible, than 
a young booby squire, when he is first introduced into a polite 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


299 


assembly. He began, however, now to recover himself; and 
taking a hint from the behaviour of Lady Bellaston, who he 
saw did not intend to claim any acquaintance with him, he re- 
solved as entirely to affect the stranger on his part. He said, 
ever since he had the pocket-book in his possession, he had used 
great diligence in enquiring out the lady whose name was writ 
in it; but never till that day could be so fortunate to discover 
her. 

Sophia had indeed mentioned the loss of her pocket-book to 
Lady Bellaston; but as Jones, for some reason or other, had 
never once hinted to her that it was in his possession, she be- 
lieved not one syllable of what Sophia now said, and wonder- 
fully admired the extreme quickness of the young lady in invent- 
ing such an excuse. The reason of Sophia’s leaving the play- 
house met with no better credit; and though she could not ac- 
count for the meeting between these two lovers, she was firmly 
persuaded it was not accidental. 

With an affected smile, therefore, she said, “Indeed, Miss 
Western, you have had very good luck in recovering your money. 
Not only as it fell into the hands of a gentleman of honour, but 
as he happened to discover to whom it belonged. I think you 
would not consent to have it advertised. It was great good 
fortune, sir, that you found out to whom the note belonged.” 

“Oh, madam,” cries Jones, “it was enclosed in a pocket-book, 
in which the young lady’s name was written.” 

“That was very fortunate, indeed,” cries the lady. “And 
it was no less so, that you heard Miss Western was at my house ; 
for she is very little known.” 

“Why, madam,” answered he, “it was by the luckiest chance 
imaginable I made this discovery. I was mentioning what I 
had found, and the name of the owner, the other night to a 
lady at the masquerade, who told me she believed she knew 
where I might see Miss Western ; and if I would come to her 
house the next morning she would inform me. I went accord- 
ing to her appointment, but she was not at home; nor could I 
ever meet with her till this morning, when she directed me to 
your ladyship’s house. I came accordingly, and did myself the 
honour to ask for your ladyship ; and upon my saying that I had 
very particular business, a servant showed me into this room; 
where I had not been long before the young lady returned from 
the play.” 


300 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Upon his mentioning the masquerade, he looked very slily at 
Lady Bellaston, without any fear of being remarked by Sophia; 
for she was visibly too much confounded to make any observa- 
tions. This hint a little alarmed the lady, and she was silent; 
when Jones, who saw the agitation of Sophia’s mind, resolved 
to take the only method of relieving her, which was by retiring; 
but, before he did this, he said, “I believe, madam, it is custom- 
ary to give some reward on these occasions; — I must insist on a 
very high one for my honesty; — it is, madam, no less than the 
honour of being permitted to pay another visit here.” 

“Sir,” replied the lady, “I make no doubt that you are a 
gentleman, and my doors are never shut to people of fashion.” 

Jones then, after proper ceremonials, departed, highly to his 
own satisfaction, and no less to that of Sophia; who was ter- 
ribly alarmed lest Lady Bellaston should discover what she 
knew already but too well. 

Upon the stairs Jones met his old acquaintance, Mrs Honour, 
who, notwithstanding all she had said against him, was now so 
well bred to behave with great civility. This meeting proved 
indeed a lucky circumstance, as he communicated to her the 
house where he lodged, with which Sophia was unacquainted. 

The elegant Lord Shaftesbury somewhere objects to telling 
too much truth: by which it may be fairly inferred, that, in 
some cases, to lie is not only excusable but commendable. 

And surely there are no persons who may so properly chal- 
lenge a right to this commendable deviation from the truth, as 
young women in the affair of love; for which they may plead 
precept, education, and above all, the sanction, nay, I may say 
the necessity of custom, by which they are restrained, not from 
submitting to the honest impulses of nature (for that would be a 
foolish prohibition), but from owning them. 

We are not, therefore, ashamed to say, that our heroine now 
pursued the dictates of the above-mentioned right honourable 
philosopher. As she was perfectly satisfied then, that Lady 
Bellaston was ignorant of the person of Jones, so she determined 
to keep her in that ignorance, though at the expense of a little 
fibbing. 

Jones had not been long gone, before Lady Bellaston cried, 
“Upon my word, a good pretty young fellow; I wonder who he 
is; for I don’t remember ever to have seen his face before.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES, 


301 


“Nor I neither, madam,” cries Sophia. “X must say he be- 
haved very handsomely in relation to my note.” 

“Yes; and he is a very handsome fellow,” said the lady; 
“don’t you think so?” 

“I did not take much notice of him,” answered Sophia, “but 
I thought he seemed rather awkward, and ungenteel than other- 
wise.” 

“You are extremely right,” cries Lady Bellaston : “you may 
see, by his manner, that he hath not kept good company. Nay, 
notwithstanding his returning your note, and refusing the re- 
ward, I almost question whether he is a gentleman. 1 have 

always observed there is a something in persons well born, which 

others can never acquire. 1 think I will give orders not to 

be at home to him.” 

“Nay, sure, madam,” answered Sophia, “one can’t suspect 
after what he hath done; — besides, if your ladyship observed 
him, there was an elegance in his discourse, a delicacy, a pretti- 
ness of expression that, that ” 

“I confess,” said Lady Bellaston, “the fellow hath words — 
And indeed, Sophia, you must forgive me, indeed you must.” 

“I forgive your ladyship!” said Sophia. 

“Yes, indeed you must,” answered she, laughing; “for I 

had a horrible suspicion when I first came into the room 1 

vow you must forgive it; but I suspected it was Mr Jones him- 
self.” 

“Did your ladyship, indeed?” cries Sophia, blushing, and af- 
fecting a laugh. 

“Yes, I vow I did,” answered she. “I can’t imagine what 
put it into my head : for, give the fellow his due, he was genteely 
drest; which, I think, dear Sophy, is not commonly the case with 
your friend.” 

“This raillery,” cries Sophia, “is a little cruel, Lady Bellaston, 
after my promise to your ladyship.” 

“Not at all, child,” said the lady. “It would have been 
cruel before; but after you have promised me never to marry 
without your father’s consent, in which you know is implied 
your giving up Jones, sure you can bear a little raillery on a 
passion which was pardonable enough in a young girl in the 
country, and of which you tell me you have so entirely got the 
better. What must I think, my dear Sophy, if you cannot bear 
a little ridicule even on his dress? I shall begin to fear you are 


302 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


very far gone indeed; and almost question whether you have 
dealt ingenuously with me.” 

“Indeed, madam,” cries Sophia, “your ladyship mistakes me, 
if you imagine I had any concern on his account.” 

“On his account!” answered the lady: “You must have mis- 
taken me; I went no farther than his dress; for I would 

not injure your taste by any other comparison — I don’t imagine, 
my dear Sophy, if your Mr Jones had been such a fellow as 
this ” 

“I thought,” says Sophia, “your ladyship had allowed him 
to be handsome ” 

“Whom, pray?” cried the lady hastily. 

“Mr Jones,” answered Sophia; — and immediately recollect- 
ing herself, “Mr Jones! — no, no; I ask your pardon; — I mean 
the gentleman who was just now here.” 

“0 # Sophy! Sophy!” cries the lady; “this Mr Jones, I am 
afraid, still runs in your head.” 

“Then, upon my honour, madam,” said Sophia, “Mr Jones 
is as entirely indifferent to me, as the gentleman who just now 
left us.” 

“Upon my honour,” said Lady Bellaston, “I believe it. For- 
give me, therefore, a little innocent raillery; but I promise you 
I will never mention his name any more.” 

And now the two ladies separated, infinitely more to the 
delight of Sophia than of Lady Bellaston, who would willingly 
have tormented her rival a little longer, had not business of 
more importance, namely, the writing of a letter, called her 
away. 

Jones had not been long at home before he received this let- 
ter : — 

“I was never more surprized than when I found you was 
gone. When you left the room I little imagined you intended 
to have left the house without seeing me again. Your behaviour 
is all of a piece, and convinces me how much I ought to despise 
a heart which can doat upon an idiot; though I know not 
whether I should not admire her cunning more than her sim- 
plicity: wonderful both! For though she understood not a word 
of what passed between us, yet she had the skill, the assurance, 

the what shall I call it? to deny to my face that she knows 

you, or ever saw you before. Was this a scheme laid between 

you, and have you been base enough to betray me? O how 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


303 


I despise her, you, and all the world, but chiefly myself! for 

I dare not write what I should afterwards run mad to read ; but 
remember, I can detest as violently as I have loved.” 

Jones had but little time given him to reflect on this letter, 
before a second was brought him from the same hand; and 
this, likewise, we shall set down in the precise words. 

‘‘When you consider the hurry of spirits in which I must have 
writ, you cannot be surprized at any expressions in my former 
note. — Yet, perhaps, on reflection, they were rather too warm. 
At least I would, if possible, think all owing to the odious play- 
house, and to the impertinence of a fool, which detained me 

beyond my appointment. How easy is it to think well of 

those we love! Perhaps you desire I should think so. I 

have resolved to see you to-night; so come to me immediately. 

"P.S . — I have ordered to be at home to none but yourself. 

“P*S . — Mr Jones will imagine I shall assist him in his de- 
fence; for I believe he cannot desire to impose on me more than 
I desire to impose on myself. 

“P.S . — Come immediately.” 

To the men of intrigue I refer the determination, whether 
the angry or the tender letter gave the greatest uneasiness to 
Jones. Certain it is, he had no violent inclination to pay any 
more visits that evening, unless to one single person. How- 
ever, he thought his honour engaged, and had not this been 
motive sufficient, he would not have ventured to blow the temper 
of Lady Bellaston into that flame of which he had reason to 
think it susceptible, and of which he feared the consequence 
might be a discovery to Sophia, which he dreaded. After some 
discontented walks therefore about the room, he was preparing 
to depart, when the lady kindly prevented him, not by another 
letter, but by her own presence. She entered the room very 
disordered in her dress, and very discomposed in her looks, and 
threw herself into a chair, where, having recovered her breath, 
she said — “You see, sir, when women have gone one length too 
far, they will stop at none. If any person would have sworn 
this to me a week ago, I would not have believed it of myself.” 

“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “my charming Lady Bellaston 
will be as difficult to believe anything against one who is so 
sensible of the many obligations she hath conferred upon him.” 


304 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Indeed!” says she, “sensible of obligations! Did I expect to 
hear such cold language from Mr Jones?” 

“Pardon me, my dear angel,” said he, “if, after the letters 
I have received, the terrors of your anger, though I know not 
how I have deserved it ” 

“And have I then,” says she, with a smile, “so angry a 
countenance? Have I really brought a chiding face with me?” 

“If there be honour in man,” said he, “I have done nothing 
to merit your anger. — You remember the appointment you sent 
me; I went in pursuance ” 

“I beseech you,” cried she, “do not run through the odious 
recital. Answer me but one question, and I shall be easy. 
Have you not betrayed my honour to her?” 

Jones fell upon his knees, and began to utter the most violent 
protestations, when Partridge came dancing and capering into 
the room, like one drunk with joy, crying out, “She’s found! 
she’s found! — Here, sir, here, she’s here — Mrs Honour is upon 
the stairs.” 

“Stop her a moment,” cries Jones — “Here, madam, step 
behind the bed, I have no other room nor closet, nor place on 
earth to hide you in; sure never was so damned an accident.” 

“D — n’d indeed!” said the lady, as she went to her place of 
concealment; and presently afterwards in came Mrs Honour. 

“Heyday!” says she, “Mr Jones, what’s the matter? That 
impudent rascal your servant would scarce let me come upstairs. 

I hope he hath not the same reason to keep me from you as he 
had at Upton. I suppose you hardly expected to see me; but 
you have certainly bewitched my lady. Poor dear young lady! 
To be sure, I loves her as tenderly as if she was my own sister. 
Lord have mercy upon you, if you don’t make her a good 
husband! and to be sure, if you do not, nothing can be bad 
enough for you.” 

Jones begged her only to whisper, for that there was a lady 
dying in the next room. 

“A lady!” cries she; “ay, I suppose one of your ladies. O 
Mr Jones, there are too many of them in the world ; I believe 
we are got into the house of one, for my Lady Bellaston I darst 
to say is no better than she should be.” 

“Hush! hush!” cries Jones, “every word is overheard in the 
next room.” 

“I don’t care a farthing,” cries Honour, “I speaks no scandal 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


305 


of any one ; but to be sure the servants make no scruple of saying 
as how her ladyship meets men at another place — where the 
house goes under the name of a poor gentlewoman ; but her 
ladyship pays the rent, and many’s the good thing besides, they 
say, she hath of her.” 

“The servants are villains,” cries Jones, “and abuse their lady 
unjustly.” 

“Ay, to be sure, servants are always villains, and so my lady 
says, and won’t hear a word of it.” 

“No, I am convinced,” says Jones, “my Sophia is above listen- 
ing to such base scandal.” 

“Nay, I believe it is no scandal, neither,” cries Honour, “for 
why should she meet men at another house? It can never be 
| for any good: for if she had a lawful design of being courted, 
as to be sure any lady may lawfully give her company to men 
upon that account: why, where can be the sense?” 

“I protest,” cries Jones, “I can’t hear all this of a lady of such 
honour, and a relation of Sophia; besides, you will distract the 
poor lady, in the next room. Let me entreat you to walk with 
me down stairs.” 

“Nay, sir, if you won’t let me speak, I have done. Here, 
sir, is a letter from my young lady — what would some men give 
to have this? But, Mr Jones, I think you are not over and 

above generous, and yet I have heard some servants say but 

I am sure you will do me the justice to own I never saw the 
colour of your money.” 

Here Jones hastily took the letter, and presently after slipped 
five pieces into her hand. He then returned a thousand thanks 
to his dear Sophia in a whisper, and begged her to leave him to 
read her letter: she presently departed, not without expressing 
much grateful sense of his generosity. 

Lady Bellaston now came from behind the curtain. How 
shall I describe her rage? Her tongue was at first incapable of 
utterance; but streams of fire darted from her eyes, and well 
indeed they might, for her heart was all in a flame. And now 
as soon as her voice found way, instead of expressing any indig- 
nation against Honour or her own servants, she began to attack 
poor Jones. 

“You see,” said she, “what I have sacrificed to you ; my repu- 
tation, my honour — gone for ever! And what return have I 
found? Neglected, slighted for a country girl, for an idiot.” 


306 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“What neglect, madam, or what slight,” cries Jones, “have 
I been guilty of?” 

“Mr Jones,” said she, “it is in vain to dissemble; if you will 
make me easy, you must entirely give her up ; and as a proof of 
your intention, show me the letter.” 

“What letter, madam?” said Jones. 

“Nay, surely,” said she, “you cannot have the confidence to 
deny your having received a letter by the hands of that trollop.” 

“And can your ladyship,” cries he, “ask of me what I must 
part with my honour before I grant? Have I acted in such 
a manner by your ladyship ? Could I be guilty of betraying this 
poor innocent girl to you, what security could you have that I 
should not act the same part by yourself? A moment’s reflection 
will, I am sure, convince you that a man with whom the secrets 
of a lady are not safe must be the most contemptible of 
wretches.” 

“Very well,” said she — “I need not insist on your becoming 
this contemptible wretch in your own opinion; for the inside 
of the letter could inform me of nothing more than I know 
already. I see the footing you are upon.” 

Here ensued a long conversation, which the reader, who is 
not too curious, will thank me for not inserting at length. It 
shall suffice, therefore, to inform him, that Lady Bellaston 
grew more and more pacified, and it w T as at length agreed that 
Jones should for the future visit at the house: for that Sophia, 
her maid, and all the servants, would place these visits to the 
account of Sophia; and that she herself would be considered as 
the person imposed upon. 

This scheme was contrived by the lady, and highly relished 
by Jones, who was indeed glad to have a prospect of seeing his 
Sophia at any rate ; and the lady herself was not a little pleased 
with the imposition on Sophia, which Jones, she thought, could 
not possibly discover to her for his own sake. 

The next day was appointed for the first visit, and then, after 
proper ceremonials, the Lady Bellaston returned home. 

Jones was no sooner alone than he eagerly broke open his 
letter, and read as follows: — 

“Sir, it is impossible to express what I have suffered since 
you left this house; and as I have reason to think you intend 
coming here again, I have sent Honour, though so late at night, 
as she tells me she knows your lodgings, to prevent you. I 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


307 


charge you, by all the regard you have for me, not to think of 
visiting here; for it will certainly be discovered; nay, I almost 
doubt, from some things which have dropt from her ladyship, 
that she is not already without some suspicion. Something 
favourable perhaps may happen ; we must wait with patience ; 
but I once more entreat you, if you have any concern for my 
ease, do not think of returning hither.” 

This letter administered the same kind of consolation to poor 
Jones, which Job formerly received from his friends. Besides 
disappointing all the hopes which he promised to himself from 
seeing Sophia, he was reduced to an unhappy dilemma, with 
regard to Lady Bellaston ; for there are some certain engage- 
ments, which, as he well knew, do very difficultly admit of any 
excuse for the failure; and to go, after the strict prohibition 
from Sophia, he was not to be forced by any human power. 
At length, after much deliberation, which during that night 
supplied the place of sleep, he determined to feign himself sick: 
for this suggested itself as the only means of failing the ap- 
pointed visit, without incensing Lady Bellaston, which he had 
more than one reason of desiring to avoid. 

The first thing, however, which he did in the morning, was, 
to write an answer to Sophia, which he inclosed in one to 
Honour. He then despatched another to Lady Bellaston, con- 
taining the above-mentioned excuse ; and to this he soon received 
the following answer: — 

“I am vexed that I cannot see you here this afternoon, but 
more concerned for the occasion; take great care of yourself, 
and have the best advice, and I hope there will be no danger. — 
I am so tormented ail this morning with fools, that I have scarce 
a moment’s time to write to you. Adieu. 

“P.S . — I will endeavour to call on you this evening, at nine. 
— Be sure to be alone.” 

Mr Jones now received a visit from Mrs Miller, who, after 
some formal introduction, began the following speech: — 

“I am very sorry, sir, to wait upon you on such an occasion ; 
but I hope you will consider the ill consequence which it must be 
to the reputation of my poor girls, if my house should once be 
talked of as a house of ill-fame. I hope you won’t think me, 
therefore, guilty of impertinence, if I beg you not to bring any 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


308 

more ladies in at that time of night. The clock had struck two 
before one of them went away.” 

“I do assure you, madam,” said Jones, “the lady who was 
here last night, and who staid the latest (for the other only 
brought me a letter), is a woman of very great fashion, and my 
near relation.” 

“I don’t know what fashion she is of,” answered Mrs Miller; 
“but I am sure no woman of virtue, unless a very near relation 
indeed, would visit a young gentleman at ten at night, and stay t 
four hours in his room with him alone ; besides, sir, the behaviour 
of her chairmen shows what she was ; for they did nothing but 
make jests all the evening in the entry, and asked Mr Partridge, 
in the hearing of my own maid, if madam intended to stay with 
his master all night; with a great deal of stuff not proper to be 
repeated. I have really a great respect for you, Mr Jones, upon 
your own account. Nay, believe me, dear Mr Jones, if my 
daughters’ and my own reputation were out of the case, I 
should, for your own sake, be sorry that so pretty a young 
gentleman should converse with these women; but if you are 
resolved to do it, I must beg you to take another lodging; for I 
do not myself like to have such things carried on under my roof ; 
but more especially upon the account of my girls, who have 
little, heaven knows, besides their characters, to recommend 
them.” 

“Indeed, Mrs Miller,” answered Jones, a little warmly, “I 
do not take this at all kind. I will never bring slander on 
your house ; but I must insist on seeing what company I please 
in my own room ; and if that gives you any offence, I shall, as 
soon as I am able, look for another lodging.” 

“I am sorry we must part then, sir,” said she; “but I am 
convinced Mr Allworthy himself would never come within my 
doors, if he had the least suspicion of my keeping an ill house.” 

“Very well, madam,” said Jones. 

“I hope, sir,” said she, “you are not angry; for I would not 
for the world offend any of Mr Allworthy’s family. I have not 
slept a wink all night about this matter.” 

“I am sorry I have disturbed your rest, madam,” said Jones, 
“but I beg you will send Partridge up to me immediately;” 
which she promised to do, and then with a very low courtesy 
retired. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES '. 


30Q 


As soon as Partridge arrived, Jones fell upon him in the most 
outrageous manner. 

“How often,” said he, “am I to suffer for your folly, or 
rather for my own in keeping you? is that tongue of yours 
resolved upon my destruction?” 

“What have I done, sir?” answered affrighted Partridge. 

“How durst you, after all the precautions I gave you, men- 
tion the name of Mr Allworthy in this house?” 

Partridge denied he ever had, with many oaths. 

“How else,” said Jones, “should Mrs Miller be acquainted 
that there was any connexion between him and* me? And it is 
but this moment she called me a member of his family.” 

“O Lord, sir,” said Partridge, “I desire only to be heard 
out; and to be sure, never was anything so unfortunate: hear 
me but out, and you will own how wrongfully you have accused 
me. When Mrs Honour came downstairs last night she met 
me in the entry, and asked me when my master had heard from 
Mr Allworthy; and to be sure Mrs Miller heard the very 
words; and the moment Madam Honour was gone, she called 
me into the parlour to her. ‘Mr Partridge,’ says she, ‘what Mr 
Allworthy is it that the gentlewoman mentioned ? is it the great 
Mr Allworthy of Somersetshire?’ ‘Upon my word, madam,’ 
says I, ‘I know nothing of the matter.’ ‘Sure,’ says she, ‘your 
master is not the Mr Jones I have heard Mr Allworthy talk of?’ 
‘Upon my word, madam,’ says I, ‘I know nothing of the matter.’ 
‘Then,’ says she, turning to her daughter Nancy, says she, ‘as 
sure as tenpence this is the very young gentleman, and he agrees 
exactly with the squire’s description.’ The Lord above knows 
who it was told her: for I am the arrantest villain that ever 
walked upon two legs if ever it came out of my mouth. I 
promise you, sir, I can keep a secret when I am desired.” 

The simplicity of Partridge set Jones a laughing, and put a 
final end to his anger, which had indeed seldom any long dura- 
tion in his mind; and, instead of commenting on his defence, 
he told him he intended presently to leave those lodgings, and 
ordered him to go and endeavour to get him others. 

Partridge had no sooner left Mr Jones than Mr Nightingale, 
with whom he had now contracted a great intimacy, came to 
him, and, after a short salutation, said, “So, Tom, I hear you 
had company very late last night. Upon my soul you are a 
happy fellow, who have not been in town above a fortnight, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


316 

and can keep chairs waiting at your door till two in the 
morning.” 

He then ran on with much commonplace raillery of the same 
kind, till Jones at last interrupted him, saying, “I suppose you 
have received all this information from Mrs Miller, who hath 
been up here a little while ago to give me warning. The good 
woman is afraid, it seems, of the reputation of her daughters.” 

“Oh! she is wonderfully nice,” says Nightingale, “upon that* 
account; if you remember, she would not let Nancy go with us 
to the masquerade.” 

“Nay, upon my honour, I think she’s in the right of it,” says 
Jones: “however, I have taken her at her word, and have sent 
Partridge to look for another lodging.” 

“If you will,” says Nightingale, “we may, I believe, be again 
together; for, to tell you a secret, w’hich I desire you won’t men- 
tion in the family, I intend to quit the house to-day.” 

“What, hath Mrs Miller given you warning too, my friend?” 
cries Jones. 

“No,” answered the other; “but the rooms are not convenient 
enough. Besides, I am grown weary of this part of the town. 

I want to be nearer the places of diversion; so I am going to 
Pallmall.” 

“And do you intend to make a secret of your going away?” 
said Jones. 

“I promise you,” answered Nightingale, “I don’t intend to 
bilk my lodgings; but I have a private reason for not taking a 
formal leave.” 

“Not so private,” answered Jones; “I promise you, I have 
seen it ever since the second day of my coming to the house. 
Here will be some wet eyes on your departure. Poor Nancy, 

I pity her, faith! Indeed, Jack, you have played the fool with 
that girl. You have given her a longing, which I am afraid 
nothing will ever cure her of.” 

“What the devil would you have me do: would you have 
me marry her to cure her?” 

“No,” answered Jones, “I would not have had you make love 
to her, as you have often done in my presence. I have been 
astonished at the blindness of her mother in never seeing it.” 

“Pugh, see it!” cries Nightingale. “What the devil should 
she see?” 

“Why, see,” said Jones, “that you have made her daughter 


the history of TOM JOMeS. 


3*1 

distractedly in love with you. The poor girl cannot conceal 
it a moment; her eyes are never off from you, and she always 
colours every time you come into the room. Indeed, I pity her 
heartily; for she seems to be one of the best-natured and honest- 
est of human creatures.” 

“And so,” answered Nightingale, “according to your doctrine, 
one must not amuse oneself by any common gallantries with 
women, for fear they should fall in love with us.” 

“Indeed, Jack,” said Jones, “you wilfully misunderstand me; 
I do not fancy women are so apt to fall in love; but you have 
gone far beyond common gallantries.” 

“What, do you suppose,” says Nightingale, “that we have 
been a-bed together?” 

“No, upon my honour,” answered Jones, very seriously, “I 
do not suppose so ill of you; nay, I will go farther, I do not 
imagine you have laid a regular premeditated scheme for the 
destruction of the quiet of a poor little creature, or have even 
foreseen the consequence ; but at the same time you have pleased 
your own vanity, without considering that this poor girl was 
made a sacrifice to it; and while you have had no design but of 
amusing an idle hour, you have actually given her reason to 
flatter herself that you had the most serious designs in her 
favour. Prithee, Jack, answer me honestly; to what have 
tended all those elegant and luscious descriptions of happiness 
arising from violent and mutual fondness? all those warm 
professions of tenderness, and generous disinterested love? Did 
you imagine she would not apply them? or, speak ingenuously, 
did not you intend she should?” 

“Upon my soul, Tom,” cries Nightingale, “I did not think 
this was in thee. Thou wilt make an admirable parson. So 
I suppose you would not go to bed to Nancy now, if she would 
let you?” 

“No,” cries Jones, “may I be d — n’d if I would.” 

“Tom, Tom,” answered Nightingale, “last night; remember 
last night 

When every eye was closed, and the pale moon, 

And silent stars, shone conscious of the theft.” 

“Lookee, Mr Nightingale,” said Jones, “I am no canting 
hypocrite, nor do I pretend to the gift of chastity, more than 
my neighbours. I have been guilty with women, I own it ; but 


2>i2 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


am not conscious that I have ever injured any. Nor would I, 
to procure pleasure to myself, be knowingly the cause of misery 
to any human being.” 

“Well, well,” said Nightingale, “I believe you, and I am con- 
vinced you acquit me of any such thing.” 

“I do, from my heart,” answered Jones, “of having debauched 
the girl, but not from having gained her affections.” 

“If I have,” said Nightingale, “I am sorry for it; but time 
and absence will soon wear off such impressions. It is a receipt 
I must take myself; for, to confess the truth to you — I never 
liked any girl half so much in my whole life ; but I must let you 
into the whole secret, Tom. My father hath provided a match 
for me with a woman I never saw; and she is now coming to 
town, in order for me to make my addresses to her.” 

At these words Jones burst into a loud fit of laughter; when 
Nightingale cried — “Nay, prithee, don’t turn me into ridicule. 
The devil take me if I am not half mad about this matter ! my 
poor Nancy! Oh! Jones, Jones, I wish I had a fortune in my 
own possession.” 

“I heartily wish you had,” cries Jones; “for, if this be the 
case, I sincerely pity you both ; but surely you don’t intend to go 
away without taking your leave of her?” 

“I would not,” answered Nightingale, “undergo the pain of 
taking leave, for ten thousand pounds ; besides, I am convinced, 
instead of answering any good purpose, it would only serve to 
inflame my poor Nancy the more. I beg, therefore, you would 
not mention a word of it to-day, and in the evening, or to- 
morrow morning, I intend to depart.” 

Jones promised he would not; and said, upon reflection, he 
thought, as he had determined and was obliged to leave her, 
he took the most prudent method. He then told Nightingale 
he should be very glad to lodge in the same house with him; 
and it was accordingly agreed between them, that Nightingale 
should procure him either the ground floor, or the two pair of 
stairs; for the young gentleman himself was to occupy that 
which was between them. 

Nightingale at last departed, and Jones sat alone in his 
room till twelve o’clock, but no Lady Bellaston appeared. 
Finally, in no very great disappointment of spirit, he betook 
himself to bed. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Containing a scene which we doubt not will affect all our 
readers. 

R JONES slept till eleven the next morning, and would, 
perhaps, have continued in the same quiet fashion much 
longer, had not a violent uproar awakened him. Partridge was 
now summoned, who, being asked what was the matter, an- 
swered, that there was a dreadful hurricane below-stairs; that 
Miss Nancy was in fits; and that the other sister, and the mother, 
were both crying and lamenting over her. Jones expressed 
much concern at this news; which Partridge endeavoured to 
relieve, by saying, with a smile, he fancied the young lady was 
in no danger of death; for that Susan (which was the name of 
the maid) had given him to understand, it was nothing more 
than a common affair. 

“In short,” said he, “Miss Nancy hath had a mind to be as 
wise as her mother ; that’s all ; she was a little hungry, it seems, 
and so sat down to dinner before grace was said; and so there 
is a child coming for the Foundling Hospital.” 

“Prithee, leave thy stupid jesting,” cries Jones. “Is the 
misery of these poor wretches a subject of mirth? Go immedi- 
ately to Mrs Miller, and tell her I beg leave — Stay, you will 
make some blunder; I will go myself; for she desired me to 
breakfast with her.” 

Jones was no sooner dressed than he walked downstairs, and 
knocking at the door, was presently admitted by the maid, into 
the outward parlour, which was as empty of company as it was 
of any apparatus for eating. Mrs Miller was in the inner room 
with her daughter, whence the maid presently brought a mes- 
sage to Mr Jones, that her mistress hoped he would excuse the 
disappointment, but an accident had happened, which made it 
impossible for her to have the pleasure of his company at break- 
fast that day ; and begged his pardon for not sending, him up 
notice sooner. Jones desired she would give herself no trouble 
about anything so trifling as his disappointment; that he was 


314 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


heartily sorry for the occasion; and that if he could be of any 
service to her, she might command him. 

He had scarce spoke these words, when Mrs Miller, who 
heard them all, suddenly threw open the door, and coming out 
to him, in a flood of tears, said, “O Mr Jones! you are certainly 
one of the best young men alive. I give you a thousand thanks 
for your kind offer of your service ; but, alas ! sir, it is out of your 
power to preserve my poor girl. — O my child ! my child ! she 
is undone, she is ruined for ever!” 

“I hope, madam,” said Jones, “no villain ” 

“O Mr Jones!” said she, “that villain who yesterday left my 
lodgings, hath betrayed my poor girl ; hath destroyed her. She 
is — she is — oh! Mr Jones, my girl is with child by him; and 
in that condition he hath deserted her. Here! here, sir, is 
his cruel letter: read it, Mr Jones, and tell me if such another 
monster lives.” 

The letter was as follows: 

“Dear Nancy, 

“As I found it impossible to mention to you what, I 
am afraid, will be no less shocking to you, than it is to me, I 
have taken this method to inform you, that my father insists 
upon my immediately paying my addresses to a young lady of 
fortune, whom he hath provided for my — I need not write the 
detested word. Your own good understanding will make you 
sensible, how entirely I am obliged to an obedience, by which 
I shall be for ever excluded from your dear arms. The fond- 
ness of your mother may encourage you to trust her with the 
unhappy consequence of our love, wdiich may be easily kept a 
secret from the world, and for which I will take care to provide, 
as I will for you. I wfish you may feel less on this account than 
I have suffered ; but summon all your fortitude to your assist- 
ance, and forgive and forget the man, whom nothing but the 
prospect of certain ruin could have forced to write this letter. 
I bid you forget me, I mean only as a lover; but the best of 
friends you shall ever find in your faithful, though unhappy, 

“J. N.” 

When Jones had read this letter, they both stood silent during 
a minute, looking at each other; at last he began thus: “I can- 
not express, madam, how much I am shocked at what I have 
read ; yet let me beg you, in one particular, to take the writer’s 
advice. Consider the reputation of your daughter — — ” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


315 

“It is gone, it is lost, Mr Jones,” cried she, “as well as her 
innocence. She* received the letter in a room full of company, 
and immediately swooning away upon opening it, the contents 
were known to every one present. But the loss of her reputa- 
tion, bad as it is, is not the worst; I shall lose my child; she 
hath attempted twice to destroy herself already; and though 
she hath been hitherto prevented, vows she will not outlive it; 
nor could I myself outlive any accident of that nature.” 

“Indeed, madam,” said Jones, with tears in his eyes, “I pity 
you from my soul.” 

“O ! Mr Jones,” answered she, “even you, though I know 
the goodness of your heart, can have no idea of what I feel. 
The best, the kindest, the most dutiful of children ! O my poor 
Nancy, the darling of my soul! the delight of my eyes! the pride 
of my heart! too much, indeed, my pride; for to those foolish, 
ambitious hopes, arising from her beauty, I owe her ruin.” 

“Indeed, madam,” said Jones, “I am very much deceived in 
Mr Nightingale, if, notwithstanding what hath happened, he 
hath not much goodness of heart at the bottom, as well as a 
very violent affection for your daughter. Endeavour, madam, to 
comfort yourself, and Miss Nancy, as well as you can. I will 
go instantly in quest of Mr Nightingale; and I hope to bring 
you good news.” 

Mrs Miller fell upon her knees and invoked all the blessings 
of heaven upon Mr Jones; to which she afterwards added the 
most passionate expressions of gratitude. He then departed to 
find Mr Nightingale, and the good woman returned to com- 
fort her daughter, who was somewhat cheared at what her 
mother told her; and both joined in resounding the praises of 
Mr Jones. 

That gentleman found Nightingale in his new lodgings, sit- 
ting melancholy by the fire, and silently lamenting the un- 
happy situation in which he had placed poor Nancy. He no 
sooner saw his friend appear than he arose hastily to meet him ; 
and after much congratulation said, “Nothing could be more 
opportune than this kind visit; for I was never more in the 
spleen in my life.” 

“I am sorry,” answered Jones, “that I bring news very un- 
likely to relieve you: nay, what I am convinced must, of all 
other, shock you the most. However, it is necessary you should 
know it. Without further preface, then, I come to you, Mr 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


316 

Nightingale, from a worthy family, which you have involved 
in misery and ruin.” 

Mr Nightingale changed colour at these words; but Jones, 
without regarding it, proceeded, in the liveliest manner, to 
paint the tragical story with which the reader has just been 
acquainted. 

Nightingale never once interrupted the narration, though he 
discovered violent emotions at many parts of it. But when it 
was concluded, after fetching a deep sigh, he said, “What you 
tell me, my friend, affects me in the tenderest manner. Sure 
there never was so cursed an accident as the poor girl’s betraying 
my letter. Her reputation might otherwise have been safe, and 
the affair might have remained a profound secret; and then the 
girl might have gone off never the worse.” 

“Indeed, my friend,” answered Jones, “this could not have 
been the case with your poor Nancy. You have so entirely 
gained her affections, that it is the loss of you, and not of her 
reputation, which afflicts her, and will end in the destruction 
of her and her family.” 

“Nay, for that matter, I promise you,” cries Nightingale, 
“she hath my affections so absolutely, that my wife, whoever 
she is to be, will have very little share in them.” 

“And is it possible then,” said Jones, “you can think of de- 
serting her?” 

“Why, what can I do?” answered the other. 

“Ask Miss Nancy,” replied Jones warmly. “In the condi- 
tion to which you have reduced her, I sincerely think she ought 
to determine what reparation you shall make her. Her in- 
terest alone, and not yours, ought to be your sole consideration. 
But if you ask me what you shall do, what can you do less,” 
cries Jones, “than fulfil the expectations of her family, and her 
own? Nay, I sincerely tell you, they were mine too, ever since 
I first saw you together. You will pardon me if I presume on 
the friendship you have favoured me with, moved as I am with 
compassion for those poor creatures. But your own heart will 
best suggest to you, whether\you have never intended, by your 
conduct, to persuade the mother, as well as the daughter, into 
an opinion, that you designed honourably: and if so, though 
there may have been no direct promise of marriage in the case, I 
will leave to your own good understanding, how far you are 
bound to proceed.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


317 

“Nay, I must not only confess what you have hinted,” said 
Nightingale; “but I am afraid even that very promise you men- 
tion I have given.” 

“And can you, after owning that,” said Jones, “hesitate a 
moment?” 

“Consider, my friend,” answered the other; “I know you are 
a man of honour, and would advise no one to act contrary to its 
rules; if there were no other objection, can I, after this publica- 
tion of her disgrace, think of such an alliance. with honour?” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied Jones, “ and the very best and truest 
honour, which is goodness, requires it of you. When you prom- 
ised to marry her she became your wife; and she hath sinned 
more against prudence than virtue. I am well assured there 
is not a man of real sense and goodness in the world who would 
not honour and applaud the action. But, admit no other 
would, would not your own heart, my friend, applaud it? And 
do not the warm, rapturous sensations, which we feel from the 
consciousness of an honest, noble, generous, benevolent action, 
convey more delight to the mind than the undeserved praise of 
millions?” 

“O, my dear friend !” cries Nightingale, “I wanted not your 
eloquence to rouse me. I pity poor Nancy from my soul, and 
would willingly give anything in my power that no familiarities 
had ever passed between us. If I had no inclinations to consult 
but my own, I would marry her to-morrow morning: I would, 
by heaven ! but you will easily imagine how impossible it would 
be to prevail on my father to consent to such a match; besides, 
he hath provided another for me; and to-morrow, by his ex- 
press command, I am to wait on the lady.” 

“I have not the honour to know your father,” said Jones; 
“but, suppose he could be persuaded, would you yourself con- 
sent to the only means of preserving these poor people?” 

“As eagerly as I would pursue my happiness,” answered 
Nightingale: “for I never shall find it in any other woman.” 

“Then I am resolved to undertake it,” said Jones. “If you 
will tell me where I may find the old gentleman, I will not lose 
a moment in the business ; which, while I pursue, you cannot do 
a more generous action than by paying a visit to the poor girl. 
You will find I have not exaggerated in the account I have 
given of the wretchedness of the family.” 

Nightingale immediately consented to thi proposal; and now, 

< 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


318 

having acquainted Jones with his father’s lodging* and the 
coffee-house where he would most probably find him, he hesi- 
tated a moment, and then said, “My dear Tom, you are going 
to undertake an impossibility. If you knew my father you 

would never think of obtaining his consent. Stay, there is 

one way — suppose you told him I was already married, it 
might be easier to reconcile him to the fact after it was done; 
and, upon my honour, I am so affected with what you have 
said, and I love my Nancy so passionately, I almost wish it was 
done, whatever might be the consequence.” 

Jones greatly approved the hint, and promised to pursue it. 
They then separated, Nightingale to visit his Nancy, and Jones 
in quest of the old gentleman. 

Unluckily for Jones, a young gentleman had visited old Night- 
ingale the day before, with a bill from his son for a play debt, 
and he apprehended, at the first sight of Jones, that he was come 
on such another errand. Jones therefore had no sooner told 
him that he was come on his son’s account than the old gentle- 
man, being confirmed in his suspicion, burst forth into an ex- 
clamation, that he would lose his labour. 

“Is it then possible, sir,” answered Jones, “that you can guess 
my business?” 

“If I do guess it,” replied the other, “I repeat again to you, 
you will lose your labour. What, I suppose you are one ojf 
those sparks who lead my son into all those scenes of riot and 
debauchery, which will be his destruction? but I shall pay no 
more of his bills, I promise you. I expect he will quit all such 
company for the future. If I had imagined otherwise, I should ! 
not have provided a wife for him; for I would be instrumental 
in the ruin of nobody.” 

“How, sir,” said Jones, “and was this lady of your provid- 
ing?” 

“Pray, sir,” answered the old gentleman, “how comes it to 
be any concern of yours?” 

“Nay, dear sir,” replied Jones, “be not offended that I in- 
terest myself in what regards your son’s happiness, for whom 
I have so great an honour and value. It was upon that very ac- 
count I came to wait upon you. I can’t express the satisfaction 
you have given me by what you say; for I do assure you your 
son is a person for whom I have the highest honour. Nay, sir, 
it is not easy to express the esteem I have for you ; who could be 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


319 


so generous, so good, so kind, so indulgent to provide such a 
match for your son ; a woman, who, I dare swear, will make him 
one of the happiest men upon earth.” 

If that was your business, sir,” said the old gentleman, “we 
are both obliged to you; and you may be perfectly easy; for I 
give you my word I was very well satisfied with her fortune.” 

Sir,” answered Jones, “I honour you every moment more 
and more. To be so easily satisfied, so very moderate on that 
account, is a proof of the soundness of your understanding, as 
well as the nobleness of your mind.” 

“Not so very moderate, young gentleman, not so very mod- 
erate,” answered the father. “How much do you imagine your 
friend is to have?” 

“How much ?” cries Jones, “how much? Why, at the utmost, 
perhaps £200.” 

“Do you mean to banter me, young gentleman?” said the 
father, a little angry. 

“No, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “I am in earnest: nay, 
I believe I have gone to the utmost farthing. If I do the lady 
an injury, I ask her pardon.” 

“Indeed you do,” cries the father; “I am certain she hath 
fifty times that sum, and she shall produce fifty to that before 
I consent that she shall marry my son.” 

“Nay,” said Jones, “it is too late to talk of consent now; if 
she had not fifty farthings your son is married.” 

“My son married!” answered the old gentleman, with sur- 
prize. 

“Nay,” said Jones, “I thought you was unacquainted with it.” 

“My son married to Miss Harris!” answered he again. 

“To Miss Harris!” said Jones; “no, sir; to Miss Nancy 
Miller, the daughter of Mrs Miller, at whose house he lodged; 
a young lady, who, though her mother is reduced to let lodg- 
ings ” 

“Are you bantering, or are you in earnest?” cries the father, 
with a most solemn voice. 

“Indeed, sir,” answered Jones, “I scorn the character of a 
banterer. I came to you in most serious earnest, imagining, as 
I find true, that your son had never dared acquaint you with 
a match so much inferior to him in point of fortune, though 
the reputation of the lady will suffer it no longer to remain a 
secret.” 


320 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


While the father stood like one struck suddenly dumb at this 
news, a gentleman came into the room, and saluted him by the 
name of brother. 

But though these two were in consanguinity so nearly re- 
lated, they were in their dispositions almost the opposites to each 
other. The brother who now arrived had likewise been bred 
to trade, in which he no sooner saw himself worth £6000 than 
he purchased a small estate with the greatest part of it, and 
retired into the country; where he married the daughter of an 
unbeneficed clergyman. By her he had four children, but none 
of them arrived at maturity, except only one daughter, whom, 
in vulgar language, he and his wife had spoiled. 

The young lady whom Mr Nightingale had intended for his 
son was a near neighbour of his brother, and an acquaintance of 
his niece; and in reality it was upon the account of his projected 
match that he was now come to town ; not, indeed, to forward, 
but to dissuade his brother from a purpose which he conceived 
would inevitably ruin his nephew; for he foresaw no other 
event from a union with Miss Harris, notwithstanding the 
largeness of her fortune, as neither her person nor mind seemed 
to him to promise any kind of matrimonial felicity: for she was 
very tall, very thin, very ugly, very affected, very silly, and very 
ill-natured. 

His brother, therefore, no sooner mentioned the marriage 
of his nephew with Miss Miller, than he exprest the utmost 
satisfaction. Jones fell into raptures with this good gentleman; 
and when, after much persuasion, they found the father grew 
still more and more irritated, instead of appeased, Jones con- 
ducted the uncle to his nephew at the house of Mrs Miller. 

There, he found the situation of affairs greatly altered from 
what they had been at his departure. The mother, the two 
daughters, and young Mr Nightingale, were now sat down to 
supper together, when the uncle was, at his own desire, intro- 
duced without any ceremony into the company, to all of whom 
he was well known ; for he had several times visited his nephew 
at that house. 

The old gentleman immediately walked up to Miss Nancy, 
saluted and wished her joy, as he did afterwards the 
mother and the other sister ; and lastly, he paid the proper com- 
pliments to his nephew, with the same good humour and cour- 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


321 


tesy, as if his nephew had married his equal or superior in for- 
tune, with all the previous requisites first performed. 

Miss Nancy and her supposed husband both turned pale, and 
looked rather foolish than otherwise upon the occasion; but 
Mrs Miller took the first opportunity of withdrawing* and, 
having sent for Jones into the dining-room, she proceeded to in- 
from him that all matters were settled between Mr Night- 
ingale and her daughter, and that they were to be married 
the next morning; at which Mr Jones having expressed much 
pleasure, the poor woman fell into a fit of joy and thanksgiv- 
ing, which he at length with difficulty silenced, and prevailed 
on her to return with him back to the company, whom they 
found in the same good humour in which they had left them. 

This little society now passed two or three very agreeable 
hours together, in which the uncle, who was a very great lover 
of his bottle, had so well plyed his nephew, that this latter, 
though not drunk, began to be somewhat flustered: and now 
Mr Nightingale, taking his uncle with him upstairs into the 
apartment he had lately occupied, unbosomed himself of his 
story; which the old gentleman had no sooner heard than 
he did his utmost to dissuade his nephew from marrying Nancy; 
and, failing utterly in that, at last extracted from him a promise 
that he would accompany him back to his lodging and spend the 
night. 

Their long absence had occasioned some disquiet in the minds 
of all whom they had left behind them; and the more, as the 
uncle had more than once elevated his voice, so as to be heard 
downstairs; which, though they could not distinguish what he 
said, had caused some evil foreboding in Nancy and her mother, 
and, indeed, even in Jones himself. 

When the good company, therefore, again assembled, there 
was a visible alteration in all their faces ; and the good-humour 
which, at their last meeting, universally shone forth in every 
countenance, was now changed into a much less agreeable as- 
pect. 

Our company in about half an hour broke up, and the uncle 
carried off his nephew*; but not before the latter had assured 
Miss Nancy, in a whisper, that he would attend her early in 
the morning, and fulfil all his engagements. 

Jones, who was the least concerned in this scene, saw the 
most. He did indeed suspect the very fact; for, besides observ- 


322 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


fng the great alteration in the behaviour of the uncle, the dis- 
tance he assumed, and his overstrained civility to Miss Nancy; 
the carrying off of a bridegroom from his bride at that time 
of night was so extraordinary a proceeding that it could be 
accounted for only by imagining that young Nightingale had 
revealed the whole truth, which the apparent openness of his 
temper, and his being flustered with liquor, made too probable. 

While he was reasoning with himself, whether he should 
acquaint these poor people with his suspicion, the maid of the 
house informed him that a gentlewoman desired to speak with 
him. He went immediately out, and, taking the candle from 
the maid, ushered his visitant upstairs, who, in the person of 
Mrs Honour, acquainted him with such dreadful news con- 
cerning his Sophia, that he immediately lost all consideration 
for every other person ; and his whole stock of compassion was 
entirely swallowed up in reflections on his own misery, and on 
that of his unfortunate angel. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

In which is opened a very black design against Sophia . 

J REMEMBER a wise old gentleman who used to say, “When 
children are doing nothing, they are doing mischief.” I 
will not enlarge this quaint saying to the most beautiful part 
of the creation in general ; but so far I may be allowed 
that when the effects of female jealousy do not appear openly 
in their proper colours of rage and fury, we may suspect that 
mischievous passion to be at work privately, and attempting 
to undermine, what it doth not attack above-ground. 

This was exemplified in the conduct of Lady Bellaston, who, 
under all the smiles which she wore in her countenance, con- 
cealed much indignation against Sophia; and as she plainly 
saw that this young lady stood between her and the full in- 
dulgence of her desires, she resolved to get rid of her by some 
means or other; nor was it long before a very favourable op- 
portunity of accomplishing this presented itself to her. 

The reader may be pleased to remember, that when Sophia! 
was thrown into that consternation at the play-house, by the wit 
and humour of a set of young gentlemen wdio call themselves > 
the town, we informed him, that she had put herself under the/ 
protection of a young nobleman, who had very safely conducted 
her to her chair. 

This nobleman, who frequently visited Lady Bellaston, had 
more than once seen Sophia there, since her arrival in town, 
and had conceived a very great liking to her; which liking, as 
beauty never looks more amiable than in distress, Sophia had 
in this fright so encreased, that he might now, without any 
great impropriety, be said to be actually in love with her. 

It may easily be believed, that he would not suffer so hand- 
some an occasion of improving his acquaintance with the be- 
loved object as now offered itself to elapse, when even good 
breeding alone might have prompted him to pay her a visit. The 
next morning therefore, after this accident, he waited on Sophia, 


324 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


with the usual compliments, and hopes that she had received no 
harm from her last night’s adventure. 

As love, like fire, when once thoroughly kindled, is soon 
blown into a flame, Sophia in a very short time compleated her 
conquest. Time now flew away unperceived, and the noble lord 
had been two hours in company with the lady, before it entered 
into his head that he had made too long a visit. 

Lady Bellaston had been apprized of his lordship’s visit at 
his first arrival ; and the length of it very well satisfied her, that 
things went as she wished, and as indeed she had suspected i 
the second time she saw this young couple together. This busi- 
ness, she rightly I think concluded, that she should by no 
means forward by mixing in the Company while they were to- 
gether; she therefore ordered her servants, that when my lord 
was going, they should tell him she desired to speak with him; 
and employed the intermediate time in meditating how best to 
accomplish a scheme, which she made no doubt but his lord- 
ship would very readily embrace the execution of. 

Lord Fellamar (for that was the title of this young noble- 
man) was no sooner introduced to her ladyship, than she at- 
tacked him in the following strain: “Bless me, my lord, are you 
here yet? I thought my servants had made a mistake, and let 
you go away; and I wanted to see you about an affair of some 
importance.” 

“Indeed, Lady Bellaston,” said he, “I don’t wonder you are 
aslpnished at the length of my visit ; for I have staid about two 
hours, and I did not think I had staid above half-a-one.” 

“What am I to conclude from thence, my lord?” said she. 
“The company must be very agreeable which can make time 
slide away so very deceitfully.” 

“Upon my honour,” said he, “the most agreeable I ever saw. 
Pray tell me, Lady Bellaston, who is this blazing star which you 
have produced among us all of a sudden ?” 

“What blazing star, my lord?” said she, affecting a surprize. 

“I mean,” said he, “the lady I saw here the other day, whom 
I had last night in my arms at the play-house, and to whom I 
have been making that unreasonable visit.” 

“O, my cousin Western!” said she; “why, that blazing star, 
my lord, is the daughter of a country booby squire, and hath 
been in town about a fortnight, for the first time.” 

“Upon my soul,” said he, “I should swear she had been bred 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


325 

up in a court; for besides her beauty, I never saw anything so 
genteel, so sensible, so polite.” 

“O brave!” cries the lady, “my cousin hath you, I find.” 

“Upon my honour,” answered he, “I wish she had; for I am 
in love with her to distraction.’ 

“Nay, my lord,” said she, “it is not wishing yourself very ill 
neither, for she is a very great fortune: I assure you she is an 
only child, and her father’s estate is a good £3000 a-year.” 

“Then I can assure you, madam,” answered the lord, “I 
think her the best match in England.” 

“Indeed, my lord,” replied she, “if you like her, I heartily 
wish you had her.” 

“If you think so kindly of me, madam,” said he, “as she is a 
relation of yours, will you do me the honour to propose it to her 
father?” 

“And are you really then in earnest?” cries the lady, with an 
affected gravity. 

“I hope, madam,” answered he, “you have a better opinion of 
me, than to imagine I would jest with your ladyship in an 
affair of this kind.” 

“Indeed, then,” said the lady, “I will most readily propose 
your lordship to her father; and I can, I believe, assure you 
of his joyful acceptance of the proposal; but there is a bar, 
which I am almost ashamed to mention; and yet it is one you 
will never be able to conquer. You have a rival, my lord, and 
a rival who, though I blush to name him, neither you, nor all 
the world, will ever be able to conquer. 

“Upon my word, Lady Bellaston,” cries he, “you have struck 
a damp to my heart, which hath almost deprived me of being.” 

“Fie, my lord,” said she, “I should rather hope I had struck 
fire into you. A lover, and talk of damps in your heart! I 
rather imagined you would have asked your rival’s name, that 
you might have immediately entered the lists with him.” 

“I promise you, madam,” answered he, “there are very few 
things I would not undertake for your charming cousin; but 
pray, who is this happy man?” 

“Why, he is,” said she, “what I am sorry to say most happy 
men with us are, one of the lowest fellows in the world. He is 
a beggar, a bastard, a foundling, a fellow in meaner circum- 
stances than one of your lordship’s footmen.” 

“And is it possible,” cried he, “that a young creature with 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


326 

such perfections should think of bestowing herself so un- 
worthily ?” 

“Alas! my lord,” answered she, “consider the country — the 
bane of all young women is the country. There they learn 
a set of romantic notions of love, and I know not what folly, 
which this town and good company can scarce eradicate in a 
winter.” 

“Indeed, madam,” replied my lord, “your cousin is of too 
immense a value to be thrown away; such ruin as this must 
be prevented.” 

“Alas!” cries she, “my lord, how can it be prevented? The 
family have already done all in their power; but the girl is, I 
think, intoxicated, and nothing less than ruin will content her. 
And to deal more openly with you, I expect every day to hear 
she is run away with him.” 

“What you tell me, Lady Bellaston,” answered his lordship, 
“affects me most tenderly, and only raises my compassion, in- 
stead of lessening my adoration of your cousin. Some means 
must be found to preserve so inestimable a jewel. Hath your 
ladyship endeavoured to reason w T ith her?” 

Here the lady affected a laugh, and cried, “My dear lord, sure 
you know us better than to talk of reasoning a young woman out 
of her inclinations? These inestimable jewels are as deaf as 
the jewels they wear : time, my lord, time is the only medicine 
to cure their folly; but this is a medicine which I am certain 
she will not take; nay, I live in hourly horrors on her account. 
In short, nothing but violent methods will do.” 

“What is to be done?” cries my lord; “what methods are to 
be taken? — Is there any method upon earth? — Oh! Lady Bellas- 
ton! there is nothing which I would not undertake for such a 
reward.” 

“I really know not,” answered the lady, after a pause; and 
then pausing again, she cried out — “Upon my soul, I am at my 
wit’s end on this girl’s account. — If she can be preserved, some- 
thing must be done immediately; and, as I say, nothing but 
violent methods will do. If your lordship hath really this at- 

tachment to my cousin (and to do her justice, except in this silly 
inclination, of which she will soon see her folly, she is every way 
deserving), I think there may be one way, indeed, it is a very 
disagreeable one, and what I am almost afraid to think of. — It 
requires a great spirit, I promise you.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


327 


“I am not conscious, madam,” said he, “of any defect there; 
nor am I, I hope, suspected of any such. It must be an egregious 
defect indeed, which could make me backward on this occasion.” 

“Nay, my lord,” answered she, “I am so far from doubting 
you, I am much more inclined to doubt my own courage; for 
I run a monstrous risk. In short, I must place such a con- 
fidence in your honour as a wise woman will scarce ever place 
in a man on any consideration.” 

In this point likewise my lord very well satisfied her; for his 
reputation was extremely clear, and common fame did him no 
more than justice, in speaking well of him. 

“Well, then,” said she, “my lord, — I — I vow, I can’t bear the 

apprehension of it. — No, it must not be. At least every other 

method shall be tried. Can you get rid of your engagements, 
and dine here to-day? Your lordship will have an opportunity 
of seeing a little more of Miss Western. — I promise you we 
have no time to lose. Here will be nobody but Lady Betty, and 
Miss Eagle, and Colonel Hampsted, and Tom Edwards; they 
will all go soon — and I shall be at home to nobody. Then 
your lordship may be a little more explicit. Nay, I will con- 
trive some method to convince you of her attachment to this 
fellow.” 

My lord made proper compliments, accepted the invitation, 
and then they parted to dress, it being now past three in the 
morning, or to reckon by the old style, in the afternoon. 

Though the reader may have long since concluded Lady 
Bellaston to be a member (and no inconsiderable one) of the 
great world; she was in reality a very considerable member of 
the little world ; by which appellation was distinguished a very 
worthy and honourable society which not long since flourished 
in this kingdom. 

Among other good principles upon which this society was 
founded, there was one very remarkable; for, as it was a rule 
of an honourable club of heroes, who assembled at the close of 
the late war, that all the members should every day fight once 
at least; so ’twas in this, that every member should, within the 
twenty-four hours, tell at least one merry fib, which was to be 
propagated by all the brethren and sisterhood. 

Edwards was likewise a member of this comical society. To 
him therefore Lady Bellaston applied as a proper instrument for 
her purpose, and furnished him with a fib, which he was to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


328 

vent whenever the lady gave him her cue; and this was not to 
be till the evening, when all the company but Lord Fellamar 
and himself were gone, and while they were engaged in a rubber 
at whist. 

To this time then, which was between seven and eight in the 
evening, we will convey our reader ; when Lady Bellaston, Lord 
Fellamar, Miss Western, and Tom, being engaged at whist, 
and in the last game of their rubbers, Tom received his cue 
from Lady Bellaston, which was, “I protest, Tom, you are 
grown intolerable lately ; you used to tell us all the news of the 
town, and now you know no more of the world than if you lived 
out of it.” 

Mr Edwards then began as follows: “The fault is not mine, 
madam: it lies in the dulness of the age, that doth nothing 

worth talking of. O la ! though now I think on’t there hath 

a terrible accident befallen poor Colonel Wilcox. Poor Ned. 

You know him, my lord, everybody knows him; faith! I 

am very much concerned for him.” 

“What is it, pray?” says Lady Bellaston. 

“Why, he hath killed a man this morning in a duel, that’s 
all.” 

His lordship, who was not in the secret, asked gravely, whom 
he had killed? To which Edwards answered, “A young fel- 
low we none of us know; a Somersetshire lad just came to 
town, one Jones his name is; a near relation of one Mr All- 
worthy, of whom your lordship I believe hath heard. I saw the 
lad lie dead in a coffee-house. Upon my soul, he is one of the 
finest corpses I ever saw in my life !” 

Sophia, who had just began to deal as Tom had mentioned 
that a man was killed, stopt her hand, and listened with atten- 
tion (for all stories of that kind affected her), but no sooner had 
he arrived at the latter part of the story than she began to deal 
again ; and having dealt three cards to one, and seven to another, 
and ten to a third, at last dropt the rest from her hand, and 
fell back in her chair. 

The company behaved as usually on these occasions. The 
usual disturbance ensued, the usual assistance was summoned, 
and Sophia at last, as it is usual, returned again to life, and 
was soon after, at her earnest desire, led to her own apartment ; 
where, at my lord’s request, Lady Bellaston acquainted her with 
the truth, attempted to carry it off as a jest of her own, and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


329 

comforted her with repeated assurances, that neither his lordship 
nor Tom, though she had taught him the story, were in the true 
secret of the affair. 

There was no farther evidence necessary to convince Lord 
Fellamar how justly the case had been represented to him by 
Lady Bellaston ; and now, at her return into the room, a scheme 
was laid between these two noble persons, which, though it 
appeared in no very heinous light to his lordship (as he faith- 
fully promised, and faithfully resolved, too, to make the lady 
all the subsequent amends in his power by marriage), yet many 
of our readers, we doubt not, will see with just detestation. 

The next evening at seven was appointed for the fatal pur- 
pose, when Lady Bellaston undertook that Sophia should be 
alone, and his lordship should be introduced to her. The whole 
family were to be regulated for the purpose, most of the servants 
despatched out of the house ; and for Mrs Honour, who, to pre- 
vent suspicion, was to be left with her mistress till his lord- 
ship’s arrival, Lady Bellaston herself was to engage her in an 
apartment as distant as possible from the scene of the intended 
mischief, and out of the hearing of Sophia. 

Matters being thus agreed on, his lordship took his leave, 
and her ladyship retired to rest, highly pleased with a project, 
of which she had no reason to doubt the success, and which 
promised so effectually to remove Sophia from being any further 
obstruction to her amour with Jones, by a means of which she 
should never appear to be guilty, even if the fact appeared to 
the world; but this she made no doubt of preventing by hud- 
dling up a marriage, to which she thought the ravished Sophia 
would easily be brought to consent, and at which all the rest 
of her family would rejoice. 

But affairs were not in so quiet a situation in the bosom of 
the other conspirator. Though the violence of his passion had 
made him eagerly embrace the first hint of this design, especially 
as it came from a relation of the lady, yet when that friend to 
reflection, a pillow, had placed the action itself in all its natural 
black colours before his eyes, with all the consequences which 
must, and those which might probably attend it, his resolution 
began to abate, or rather indeed to go over to the other side; 
and after a long conflict, which lasted a whole night, between 
honour and appetite, the former at length prevailed, and he de- 


330 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


termined to wait on Lady Bellaston, and to relinquish the de- 
sign. 

Lady Bellaston was in bed, though very late in the morning, 
when the servant acquainted her that Lord Fellamar was below , 
in the parlour. She ordered that he be admitted upstairs at 
once, and when she heard his scruples, she treated them with the 
same disdain with which one of those sages of the law, called 
Newgate solicitors, treats the qualms of conscience in a young 
witness. 

“My dear lord,” said she, “you certainly want a cordial. I 
must send to Lady Edgely for one of her best drams. Fie upon 
it ! have more resolution. Are you frightened by the word rape ? 

Or are you apprehensive ? Well! if the story of Helen was 

modern, I should think it unnatural. I mean the behaviour of 
Paris, not the fondness of the lady; for all women love a man 
of spirit. There is another story of the Sabine ladies — and 
that too, I thank heaven, is very ancient. Your lordship, per- 
haps, will admire my reading; but I think Mr Hook tells us, 
they made tolerable good wives afterwards. I fancy few of my 
married acquaintance were ravished by their husbands.” 

“Nay, dear Lady Bellaston,” cried he, “don’t ridicule me in 
this manner.” 

“Why, my good lord,” answered she, “do you think any 
woman in England would not laugh at you in her heart, what- 
ever prudery she might wear in her countenance? You force 

me to use a strange kind of language, and to betray my sex 
most abominably; but I am contented with knowing my in- 
tentions are good, and that I am endeavouring to serve my 
cousin ; for I think you will make her a husband notwithstand- 
ing this; or, upon my soul, I would not even persuade her to 
fling herself away upon an empty title. She should not upbraid 
me hereafter with having lost a man of spirit; for that his 
enemies allow this poor young fellow to be.” 

Reflections of this kind are not sweetened by coming from a 
female tongue; in fact, it would have required much less to 
overcome Lord Fellamar’s scruples, who ended by again consent- 
ing to all she proposed. 

The arrangements were carried out faithfully as planned; 
the appointed hour arrived, and poor Sophia, alone and melan- 
choly, sat reading a tragedy. It was the Fatal Marriage; and 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


331 


she was now come to that part where the poor distrest Isabella 
disposes of her w T edding-ring. 

Here the book dropt from her hand, and a shower of tears 
ran dow T n into her bosom. In this situation she had continued 
a minute, when the door opened, and in came Lord Fellamar. 
Sophia started from her chair at his entrance; and his lordship 
advancing forwards, and making a low bow, said, “I am afraid, 
Miss Western, I break in upon you abruptly.” 

“Indeed, my lord,” says she, “I must own myself a little sur- 
prized at this unexpected visit.” 

“If this visit be unexpected, madam,” answered Lord Fella- 
mar, “my eyes must have been very faithless interpreters of my 
heart, when last I had the honour of seeing you; for surely 
you could not otherwise have hoped to detain my heart in your 
possession, without receiving a visit from its owner.” 

“Upon my word, my lord,” said Sophia, “I neither under- 
stand your words nor your behaviour.” 

“Suffer me then, madam,” cries he, “at your feet to explain 
both, by laying open my soul to you, and declaring that I doat 
on you to the highest degree of distraction. O most adorable, 
most divine creature! what language can express the sentiments 
of my heart ?” 

“I do assure you, my lord,” said Sophia, “I shall not stay to 
hear any more of this.” 

“Do not,” cries he, “think of leaving me thus cruelly; could 
you know half the torments which I feel, that tender bosom 
must pity what those eyes have caused.” Then fetching a deep 
sigh, and laying hold of her hand, he ran on for some minutes 
in a strain which would be little more pleasing to the reader than 
it was to the lady; and at last concluded with a declaration, 
that if he was master of the world, he would lay it at her 
feet. 

Sophia then, forcibly pulling away her hand from his, an- 
swered with much spirit, “I promise you, sir, your world and its 
master I should spurn from me with equal contempt.” 

She then offered to go; and Lord Fellamar, again laying hold 
of her hand, said, “Pardon me, my* beloved angel, freedoms 

which nothing but despair could have tempted me to take. 

Believe me, could I have had any hope that my title and for- 
tune, neither of them inconsiderable, unless when compared with 
your worth, would have been accepted, I had, in the humblest 


332 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


manner, presented them to your acceptance. But I cannot 

lose you. — By heaven, I will sooner part with my soul! — You 
are, you must, you shall be only mine.” 

“My lord,” says she, “I intreat you to desist from a vain pur- 
suit; for, upon my honour, I will never hear you on this 
subject. Let go my hand, my lord; for I am resolved to go from 
you this moment; nor will I ever see you more.” 

“Then, madam,” cries his lordship, “I must make the best use 
of this moment; for I cannot live, nor will I live without you.” 

“What do you mean, my lord?” said Sophia; “I will raise the 
family.” 

“I have no fear, madam,” answered he, “hut of losing you, 
and that I am resolved to prevent, the only way which despair 
points to me.” 

He then caught her in his arms: upon which she screamed so 
loud, that she must have alarmed some one to her assistance, 
had not Lady Bellaston taken care to remove all ears. 

But a more lucky circumstance happened for poor Sophia; 
another noise now broke forth, which almost drowned her cries ; 
for now the whole house rang with, “Where is she ? D — n me, 
I’ll unkennel her this instant. Show me her chamber, I say. 
Where is my daughter? I know she is in the house, and I’ll see 
her if she’s above-ground. Show me where she is.” — At which 
last words the door flew open, and in came Squire Western, 
with his parson and a set of myrmidons at his heels. 

How miserable must have been the condition of poor Sophia, 
when the enraged voice of her father was welcome to her ears ! 
Welcome indeed it was, and luckily did he come ; for it was the 
only accident upon earth which could have preserved the peace 
of her mind from being for ever destroyed. 

Sophia, notwithstanding her fright, presently knew her father’s 
voice; and his lordship, notwithstanding his passion, knew the 
voice of reason, which peremptorily assured him, it was not now 
a time for the perpetration of his villany. Hearing, therefore, 
the voice approach, and hearing likewise whose it was ( for as the 
squire more than once roared forth the word daughter, so 
Sophia, in the midst of her struggling, cried out upon her 
father), he thought proper to relinquish his prey, having only 
disordered her handkerchief, and with his rude lips committed 
violence on her lovely neck. 

If the reader’s imagination doth not assist me, I shall never 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


333 


be able to describe the situation of these two persons when 
Western came into the room. Sophia tottered into a chair, 
where she sat disordered, pale, breathless, bursting with indig- 
nation at Lord Fellamar; affrighted, and yet more rejoiced, 
at the arrival of her father. 

His lordship sat down near her, with the bag of his wig hang- 
ing over one of his shoulders, the rest of his dress being some- 
what disordered, and rather a greater propotion of linen than is 
usual appearing at his bosom. As to the rest, he was amazed, 
affrighted, vexed, and ashamed. 

As to Squire Western, he happened at this time to be over- 
taken by an enemy, which very frequently pursues, and seldom 
fails to overtake, most of the country gentlemen in this king- 
dom. He was, literally speaking, drunk; which circumstance, 
together with his natural impetuosity, could produce no other 
effect than his running immediately up to his daughter, upon 
whom he fell foul with his tongue in the most inveterate man- 
ner; nay, he had probably committed violence with his hands, 
had not the parson interposed, saying, “For heaven’s sake, sir, 
animadvert that you are in the house of a great lady. Let me 
beg you to mitigate your wrath ; it should minister a fulness of 
satisfaction that you have found your daughter; for as to re- 
venge, it belongeth not unto us. I discern great contrition in the 
countenance of the young lady. I stand assured, if you will for- 
give her, she will repent her of all past offences, and return unto 
her duty.” 

The strength of the parson’s arm had at first been of more 
service than the strength of his rhetoric. However, his last 
words wrought some effect, and the squire answered, “I’ll for- 
gee her if she wull ha un. If wot ha un, Sophy, I’ll forgee thee 
all. Why dost unt speak? Shat ha un! d — n me, shat ha un! 
Why dost unt answer? Was ever such a stubborn tuoad ?” 

“Let me intreat you, sir, to be a little more moderate,” said 
the parson; “you frighten the young lady so, that you deprive 
her of all power of utterance.” 

“Power of mine eye,” answered the squire. “You take her part 
then, you do? A pretty parson, truly, to side with an undutiful 
child! Yes, yes, I will gee you a living with a pox. I’ll gee un 
to the devil sooner.” 

“I humbly crave your pardon,” said the parson ; “I assure your 
worship I meant no such matter.” 


334 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


My Lady Bellaston now entered the room, and came up to 
the squire, who no sooner saw her, than, resolving to follow 
the instructions of his sister, he made her a very civil bow, in the 
rural manner, and paid her some of his best compliments. He 
then immediately proceeded to his complaints, and said, “There, 
my lady cousinj there stands the most undutiful child in the 
world; she hankers after a beggarly rascal, and won’t marry one 
of the greatest matches in all England, that we have provided 
for her.” 

“Indeed, cousin Western,” answered the lady, “I am per- 
suaded you wrong my cousin. I am sure she hath a better under- 
standing. I am convinced she will not refuse what she must be 
sensible is so much to her advantage.” 

This was a wilful mistake in Lady Bellaston, for she well 
knew whom Mr Western meant; though perhaps she thought 
he would easily be reconciled to his lordship’s proposals. 

“Do you hear there,” quoth the squire, “what her ladyship 
says? All your family are for the match. Come, Sophy, be a 
good girl, and be dutiful, and make your father happy.” 

“If my death will make you happy, sir,” answered Sophia, 
“you will shortly be so.” 

“It’s a lie, Sophy; it’s a d— n’d lie, and you know it,” said 
the squire. 

“Indeed, Miss Western,” said Lady Bellaston, “you injure 
your father; he hath nothing in view but your interest in this 
match ; and I and all your friends must acknowledge the highest 
honour done to your family in the proposal.” 

“Ay, all of us,” quoth the squire ; “nay, it was no proposal of 
mine. She knows it was her aunt proposed it to me first. Come, 
Sophy, once more let me beg you to be a good girl, and gee me 
your consent before your cousin.” 

“Let me give him your hand, cousin,” said the lady. “It is 
the fashion now-a-days to dispense with time and long court- 
ships.” 

“Pugh!” said the squire, “what signifies time; won’t they have 
time enough to court afterwards? People may court very well 
after they have been a-bed together.” 

As Lord Fellamar was very well assured that he was meant 
by Lady Bellaston, so, never having heard nor suspected a word 
of Blifil, he made no doubt of his being meant by the father. 
Coming up, therefore, to the squire, he said, “Though I have 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


335 

not the honour, sir, of being personally known to you, yet, as I 
find I have, the happiness to have my proposals accepted, let me 
intercede, sir, in behalf of the young lady, that she may not be 
more solicited at this time.” 

“You intercede, sir!” said the squire; “why, who the devil are 
you?” 

“Sir, I am Lord Fellamar,” answered he, “and am the happy 
man whom I hope you have done the honour of accepting for a 
son-in-law.” 

“You are a son of a b ,” replied the squire, “for all your 

laced coat. You my son-in-law, and be d — n’d to you!” 

“I shall take more from you, sir, than from any man,” an- 
swered the lord ; “but I must inform you that I am not used to 
hear such language without resentment.” 

“Resent my eye,” quoth the squire. “Don’t think I am afraid 
of such a fellow as thee art! because hast got a spit there dan- 
gling at thy side. Lay by your spit, and I’ll give thee enough of 
meddling with what doth not belong to thee. I’ll teach you to 
father-in-law me. I’ll lick thy jacket.” 

“It’s very well, sir,” said my lord, “I shall make no disturbance 
before the ladies. I am very well satisfied. Your humble serv- 
ant, sir; Lady Bellaston, your most obedient.” 

His lordship was no sooner gone, than Lady Bellaston, com- 
ing up to Mr Western, said, “Bless me, sir, what have you done? 
You know not whom you have affronted; he is a nobleman of 
the first rank and fortune, and yesterday made proposals to your 
daughter ; and such as I am sure you must accept with the highest 
pleasure.” 

“Answer for yourself, lady cousin,” said the squire, “I will 
have nothing to do with any of your lords. My daughter shall 
have an honest country gentleman ; I have pitched upon one for 
her — and she shall ha’ un. — I am sorry for the trouble she hath 
given your ladyship with all my heart. So I wish your ladyship 
a good night. — Come, madam, you must go along with me by 
fair means, or I’ll have you carried down to the coach.” 

Sophia said she would attend him without force ; but begged 
to go in a chair, for she said she should not be able to ride any 
other way. 

“Prithee,” cries the squire, “wout unt persuade me canst not 
ride in a coach, wouldst ? That’s a pretty thing surely ! No, no, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


336 

I’ll never let thee out of my sight any more till art married, 
that I promise thee.” 

Sophia told him, she saw he was resolved to break her heart. 

“O break thy heart and be d — n’d,” quoth he, “if a good hus- 
band will break it.” 

He then took violent hold of her hand ; upon which the par- 
son once more interfered, begging him to use gentle methods. 
At that the squire thundered out a curse, and bid the parson 
hold his tongue. 

Mrs Honour appeared below-stairs, and with a low curtesy 
to the squire offered to attend her mistress; but he pushed her 
away, saying, “Hold, madam, hold, you come no more near my 
house.” 

“And will you take my maid away from me ?” said Sophia. 

“Yes, indeed, madam, will I,” cries the squire: “you need not 
fear being without a servant ; I will get you another maid, and a 
better maid than this, who, I’d lay five pounds to a crown, is no 
more a maid than my grannum. No, no, Sophy, she shall con- 
trive no more escapes, I promise you.” 

He then packed up his daughter and the parson into the 
hackney coach, after which he mounted himself, and ordered it 
to drive to his lodgings. In the way thither he suffered Sophia 
to be quiet, and entertained himself with reading a lecture to 
the parson on good manners, and a proper behaviour to his bet- 
ters. 

It is possible he might not so easily have carried off his 
daughter from Lady Bellaston, had that good lady desired to 
have detained her; but, in reality, she was not a little pleased 
with the confinement into which Sophia was going, and as her 
project with Lord Fellamar had failed of success, she was well 
contented that other violent methods were now going to be used 
in favour of another man. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


By what means the squire came to discover his daughter; with 
various misfortunes which befel poor Jones. 

THOUGH the reader, in many histories, is obliged to digest 
much more unaccountable appearances than this of Mr 
Western, without any satisfaction at all; yet, as we dearly love 
to oblige him whenever it is in our power, we shall now pro- 
'ceed to shew by what method the squire discovered where his 
daughter was. 

In a previous chapter, then, we gave a hint (for it is not our 
custom to unfold at any time more than is necessary for the oc- 
casion) that Mrs Fitzpatrick, who was very desirous of recon- 
ciling her uncle and aunt Western, thought she had a probable 
opportunity, by the service of preserving Sophia from commit- 
ting the same crime which had drawn on herself the anger of her 
family. After much deliberation, therefore, she resolved to in- 
form her aunt Western where her cousin was, and accordingly 
she writ the following letter, which we shall give the reader at 
length, for more reasons than one. 

“Honoured Madam, 

“The occasion of my writing this will perhaps make a 
letter of mine agreeable to my dear aunt, for the sake of one of 
her nieces, though I have little reason to hope it will be so on 
the account of another. 

“Without more apology, as I was coming to throw my un- 
happy self at your feet, I met, by the strangest accident in the 
world, my cousin Sophy, whose history you are better acquainted 
with than myself, though, alas! I know infinitely too much; 
enough indeed to satisfy me, that unless she is immediately pre- 
vented, she is in danger of running into the same fatal mischief, 
which, by foolishly and ignorantly refusing your most wise and 
prudent advice, I have unfortunately brought on myself. 

“In short, I have seen the man, nay, I was most part of yes- 
terday in his company, and a charming young fellow I promise 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


338 

you he is. By what accident he became acquainted with me is too 
tedious to tell you now; but I have this morning changed my 
lodgings to avoid him, lest he should by my means discover my 
cousin ; for he doth not yet know where she is, and it is advise- 

able he should not, till my uncle hath secured her. No time 

therefore is to be lost; and I need only inform you, that she is 
now with Lady Bellaston, whom I have seen, and who hath, 1 
find, a design of concealing her from her family. You know, 
madam, she is a strange woman; but nothing could misbecome 
me more than to presume to give any hint to one of your great 
understanding and great knowledge of the world, besides barely 
informing you of the matter of fact. 

“I hope, madam, the care which I have shewn on this oc- 
casion for the good of my family will recommend me again to the 
favour of a lady who hath always exerted so much zeal for the 
honour and true interest of us all ; and that it may be a means of 
restoring me to your friendship, which hath made so great a 
part of my former, and is so necessary to my future happiness. 

“I am 

with the utmost respect, 
honoured madam, 

your most dutiful obliged niece, 
and most obedient humble servant, 

“Harriet Fitzpatrick/’ 

Mrs Western was now at her brother’s house, where she had 
resided ever since the flight of Sophia, in order to administer 
comfort to the poor squire in his affliction. She was now stand- 
ing with her back to the fire, and, with a pinch of snuff in her 
hand, was dealing forth this daily allowance of comfort to the 
squire while he smoaked his afternoon pipe, when she received 
the above letter ; which she had no sooner read than she delivered 
it to him, saying, “There, sir, there is an account of your lost 
sheep. Fortune hath again restored her to you, and if you will 
be governed by my advice, it is possible you may yet preserve 
her.” 

The squire had no sooner read the letter than he leaped from 
his chair, threw his pipe into the fire, and gave a loud huzza for 
joy. He then summoned his servants, called for his boots, and 
ordered the Chevalier and several other horses to be saddled, and 
that parson Supple should be immediately sent for. Having 




THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


339 


done this, he turned to his sister, caught her in his arms, and 
gave her a close embrace, saying, “Zounds! you don’t seem 
pleased ; one would imagine you was sorry I have found the 

girl.” 

Brother,” answered she, “the deepest politicians, who see to 
the bottom, discover often a very different aspect of affairs, from 
what swims on the surface. There is a delicacy required in this 
matter, which you will pardon me, brother, if I suspect you 
want. There is a decorum to be used with a woman of figure, 
such as Lady Bellaston, brother, which requires a knowledge of 
the world, superior, I am afraid, to yours.” 

“Sister,” cries the squire, “I know you have no opinion of my 
parts; but I’ll shew you on this occasion who is a fool. Knowl- 
edge, quotha! I have not been in the country so long without 
having some knowledge of warrants and the law of the land. I 
know I may take my own wherever I can find it. Shew me my 
own daughter, and if I don’t know how to come at her, I’ll suf- 
fer you to call me a fool as long as I live. There be justices of 
peace in London, as well as in other places.” 

“I protest,” cries she, “you make me tremble for the event of 
this matter, which, if you will proceed by my advice, you may 
bring to so good an issue. Do you really imagine, brother, that 
the house of a woman of figure is to be attacked by warrants and 
brutal justices of the peace? I will inform you how to proceed. 
As soon as )'ou arrive in town, and have got yourself into a 
decent dress (for indeed, brother, you have none at present fit to 
appear in), you must send your compliments to Lady Bellaston, 
and desire leave to wait on her. When you are admitted to her 
presence, as you certainly will be, and have told her your story, 
and have made proper use of my name (for I think you just 
know one another only by sight, though you are relations). 

I am confident she will withdraw her protection from my niece, 
who hath certainly imposed upon her. This is the only method. 
Justices of peace, indeed ! do you imagine any such event can 
arrive to a woman of figure in a civilised nation ?” 

“D — n their figures,” cries the squire; “a pretty civilised 
nation, truly, where women are above the law. I tell you, 

sister, I am not so ignorant as you think me 1 know you 

would have women above the law, but it is all a lie; I heard 
his lordship say at size, that no one is above the law. But this 
of yours is Hanover law, I suppose.” 


340 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Mr Western,” said she, “I think you daily improve in igno- 
rance. I protest you are grown an arrant bear.” 

“No more a bear than yourself, sister Western,” said the 
squire. “Pox! you may talk of your civility an you will, I am 
sure you never shew any to me. I am no bear, no, nor no dog 
neither, though I know somebody, that is something that begins 
with a b ; but pox ! I will show you I have got more good man- 
ners than some folks.” 

“Mr Western,” answered the lady, “you may say what you 
please, je vous mesprise de tout mon cceur. I shall not therefore 
be angry. Besides, as my cousin, with that odious Irish name, 
justly says, I have that regard for the honour and true interest 
of my family, and that concern for my niece, who is a part of it, 
that I have resolved to go to town myself upon this occasion; 
for indeed, indeed, brother, you are not a fit minister to be em- 
ployed at a polite court. — Greenland — Greenland should always 
be the scene of the tramontane negociation.” 

“I thank Heaven,” cries the squire, “I don’t understand you 
now. You are got to your Hanoverian linguo. However, I’ll 
shew you I scorn to be behindhand in civility with you ; and as 
you are not angry for what I have said, so I am not angry for 
what you have said. Indeed I have always thought it a folly for 
relations to quarrel; and if they do now and then give a hasty 
word, why, people should give and take; for my part, I never 
bear malice ; and I take it very kind of you to go up to London ; 
for I never was there but twice in my life, and then I did not 
stay above a fortnight at a time, and to be sure I can’t be ex- 
pected to know much of the streets and the folks in that time. 
I never denied that you know’d all these matters better than I. 
For me to dispute that would be all as one as for you to dispute 
the management of a pack of dogs, or the finding a hare sitting, 
with me.” 

“Which I promise you,” says she, “I never will.” 

“Well, and I promise you,” returned he, “that I never will 
dispute the t’other.” 

Here then a league was struck ( to borrow a phrase from the 
lady) between the contending parties; and now the parson ar- 
riving, and the horses being ready, the squire departed, having 
promised his sister to follow her advice, and she prepared to 
follow him the next day. 

But having communicated these matters to the parson on the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 34 1 

road, they both agreed that the prescribed formalities might 
very well be dispensed with ; and the squire, having changed 
his mind, proceeded in the manner we have already seen. 

Affairs were in this situation when Mrs Honour arrived at 
Mrs Miller s, and called Jones out from the company, as we 
have before seen, with whom, when she found herself alone, 
she began as follows: — 

O, my dear sir ! how shall I get spirits to tell you ; you are 
undone, sir, and my poor lady’s undone, and I am undone.” 

Hath anything happened to Sophia?” cries Jones, staring like 
a madman. 

All that is bad,” cries Honour: “Oh, I shall never get such 
another lady! Oh that I should ever live to see this day! O! 
Mr Jones, I have lost my lady for ever.” 

“How? what! for Heaven’s sake, tell me. O, my dear 
Sophia!” 

“You may well call her so,” said Honour; “she was the 
dearest lady to me. I shall never have such another place.” 

“D — n your place!” cries Jones; “where is — what — what is 
become of my Sophia?” 

“Ay, to be sure,” cries she, “servants may be d — n’d. It 
signifies nothing what becomes of them, though they are turned 
away, and ruined ever so much. To be sure they are not flesh 
and blood like other people. No, to be sure, it signifies nothing 
what becomes of them.” 

“If you have any pity, any compassion,” cries Jones, “I beg 
you will instantly tell me what hath happened to Sophia?” 

“To be sure, I have more pity for you than you have for me,” 
answered Honour; “I don’t d — n you because you have lost the 
sweetest lady in the world. To be sure you are worthy to be 
pitied, and I am worthy to be pitied too : for, to be sure, if ever 
there was a good mistress ” 

“What hath happened ?” cried Jones, in almost a raving fit. 

“What? — What?” said Honour: “Why, the worst that could 
have happened both for you and for me. — Her father is come 
to town, and hath carried her away from us both.” 

Here Jones fell on his knees in thanksgiving that is was no 
worse. 

“No worse!” repeated Honour; “what could be worse for 
either of us? He carried her off, swearing she should marry 


342 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Mr Blifil; that’s for your comfort; and, for poor me, I am 
turned out of doors.” 

“Indeed, Mrs, Honour,” answered Jones, “you frightened me 
out of my wits. I imagined some most dreadful sudden accident 
had happened to Sophia; something, compared to which, even 
seeing her married to Blifil would be a trifle; but while there 
is life there are hopes, my dear Honour. Women in this land 
of liberty, cannot be married by actual brutal force.” j 

“To be sure, sir,” said she, “that’s true. There may be some 
hopes for you; but alack-a-day! what hopes are there for poor 
me ? And to be sure, sir, you must be sensible I suffer all this 
upon your account. All the quarrel the squire hath to me is 
for taking your part, as I have done, against Mr Blifil.” 

“Indeed, Mrs Honour,” answered he, “I am sensible of my 
obligations to you, and will leave nothing in my power undone 
to make you amends.” 

“Alas! sir,” said she, “what can make a servant amends for 
the loss of one place but the getting another altogether as good ?” 

“Do not despair, Mrs Honour,” said Jones, “I hope to rein- 
state you again in the same.” 

“Alack-a-day, sir,” said she, “how can I flatter myself with 
such hopes when I know it is a thing impossible? for the squire 
is so set against me : and yet, if you should ever have my lady, as 
to be sure I now hopes heartily you will ; for you are a generous, 
good-natured gentleman ; and I am sure you loves her, and to be 
sure she loves you as dearly as her own soul ; it is a matter in 
vain to deny it; because as why, everybody, that is in the least 
acquainted with my lady, must see it; for, poor dear lady, she 
can’t dissemble : and if two people who loves one another a’n’t 
happy, why who should be so? Happiness don’t always depend 
upon w T hat people has; besides, my lady has enough for both. 
If I was in love with a young man, and my father offered to 
lock me up, I’d tear his eyes out but I’d come at him; but then 
there’s a great fortune in the case, which it is in her father’s 
power either to give her or not; that, to be sure, may make 
some difference.” 

At that instant, Partridge came running into the room, and 
informed him that the great lady w T as upon the stairs. Nothing 
could equal the dilemma to which Jones was now reduced. 
Honour knew nothing of any acquaintance that subsisted be- 
tween him and Lady Bellaston, and she was almost the last 
person in the world to whom he would have communicated it. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


343 

In this hurry and distress, he took (as is common enough) the 
worst course, and, instead of exposing her to the lady, which 
would have been of little consequence, he chose to expose the 
lady to her; he therefore resolved to hide Honour, whom he had 
but just time to convey behind the bed, and to draw the cur- 
tains. 

The hurry in which Jones had been all day engaged on ac- 
count of his poor landlady and her family, the terrors occasioned 
by Mrs Honour, and the confusion into which he was thrown 
by the sudden arrival of Lady Bellaston, had altogether driven 
former thoughts out of his head ; so that it never once occurred 
to his memory to act the part of a sick man; which, indeed, 
neither the gaiety of his dress, nor the freshness of his coun- 
tenance, would have at all supported. 

He received her ladyship therefore rather agreeably to her 
desires than to her expectations, with all the good humour he 
could muster in his countenance, and without any real or affected 
appearance of the least disorder. Lady Bellaston no sooner 
entered the room, than she squatted herself down on the bed. 

“So, my dear Jones,” said she, “you find nothing can detain 
me long from you. Perhaps I ought to be angry with you, that 
I have neither seen nor heard from you all day; for I perceive 
your distemper would have suffered you to come abroad: nay, 

I suppose you have not sat in your chamber all day drest up like 
a fine lady to see company after a lying-in ; but, however, don’t 
think I intend to scold you ; for I never will give you an excuse 
for the cold behaviour of a husband, by putting on the ill- 
humour of a wife.” 

“Nay, Lady Bellaston,” said Jones, “I am sure your lady- 
ship will not upbraid me with neglect of duty, when I only 
waited for orders. Who, my dear creature, hath reason to 
complain? Who missed an appointment last night, and left 
an unhappy man to expect, and wish, and sigh, and languish?” 

“Do not mention it, my dear Mr Jones,” criedshe.. “If you 
knew the occasion, you would pity me. In short, it is impossible 
to conceive what women of condition are obliged to suffer from 
the impertinence of fools, in order to keep up the farce of the 
world. I am glad, however, all your languishing and wishing 
have done you no harm; for you never looked better in your 
life. Upon my faith! Jones, you might at this instant sit for 
the picture of Adonis.” 

There are certain words of provocation which men of honour 


/ 


344 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


hold can properly be answered only by a blow. Among lovers 
possibly there may be some expressions which can be answered 
only by a kiss. Now the compliment which Lady Bellaston 
now made Jones seems to be of this kind, especially as it was 
attended with a look, in which the lady conveyed more soft ideas 
than it was possible to express with her tongue. 

Jones was certainly at this instant in one of the most dis- 
agreeable and distressed situations imaginable; for, to carry on 
the comparison we made use of before, though the provocation 
was given by the lady, Jones could not receive satisfaction, nor 
so much as offer to ask it, in the presence of a third person; 
seconds in this kind of duels not being according to the law of 
arms. As this objection did not occur to Lady Bellaston, who 
was ignorant of any other woman being there but herself, she 
waited some time in great astonishment for an answer from 
Jones, who, conscious of the ridiculous figure he made 4 
stood at a distance, and, not daring to give the proper 
answer, gave none at all. Nothing can be imagined 
more comic, nor yet more tragical, than this scene 
would have been if it had lasted much longer. The lady 
had already changed colour two or three times ; had 
got up from the bed and sat down again, while Jones was 
wishing the ground to sink under him, or the house to fall on 
his head, when an odd accident freed him from an embarrass- 
ment out of which neither the eloquence of a Cicero, nor the 
politics of a Machiavel, could have delivered him, without utter 
disgrace. 

This was no other than the arrival of young Nightingale, 
dead drunk; or rather in that state of drunkenness which de- 
prives men of the use of their reason without depriving them of 
the use of their limbs. 

Mrs Miller and her daughters w’ere in bed, and Partridge was 
smoaking his pipe by the kitchen fire; so that he arrived at Mr 
Jones’s chamber-door without any interruption. This he burst 
open, and was entering without any ceremony, when Jones 
started from his seat and ran to oppose him, which he did so 
effectually, that Nightingale never came far enough within the 
door to see who was sitting on the bed. 

Nightingale had in reality mistaken Jones’s apartment for 
that in which himself had lodged ; he therefore strongly insisted 
on coming in, often swearing that he would not be kept from 
his own bed. Jones, however, prevailed over him, and delivered 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


345 

him into the hands of Partridge, whom the noise on the stairs 
soon summoned to his master’s assistance. 

And now Jones was unwillingly obliged to return to his own 
apartment, where at the very instant of his entrance he heard 
Lady Bellaston venting an exclamation, though not a very loud 
one; and at the same time saw her flinging herself into a chair 
in a vast agitation, which in a lady of a tender constitution 
would have been an hysteric fit. 

In reality the lady, frightened with the struggle between the 
two men, of which she did not know what would be the issue, 
as she heard Nightingale swear many oaths he would come to 
his own bed, attempted to retire to her known place of hiding, 
which to her great confusion she found already occupied by 
another. 

“Is this usage to be borne, Mr Jones?” cries the lady. 

“Basest of men? What wretch is this to whom you have 

exposed me?” 

“Wretch!” cries Honour, bursting in a violent rage from her 
place of concealment “Marry come up! Wretch for- 
sooth? as poor a wretch as I am, I am honest; this is more 

than some folks who are richer can say.” 

Jones, instead of applying himself directly to take off the 
edge of Mrs Honour’s resentment, as a more experienced gal- 
lant would have done, fell to cursing his stars, and lamenting 
himself as the most unfortunate man in the world; and pres- 
ently after, addressing himself to Lady Bellaston, he fell to 
some very absurd protestations of innocence. By this time the 
lady, having recovered the use of her reason, which she had 
ns ready as any woman in the world, especially on such occa- 
sions, calmly replied: “Sir, you need make no apologies, I see 
now who the person is; I did not at first know Mrs Honour: 
but now I do, I can suspect nothing wrong between her and you ; 
and I am sure she is a woman of too good sense to put any 
wrong construction upon my visit to you ; I have been always her 
friend, and it may be in my power to be much more hereafter.” 

Mrs Honour was altogether as placable as she was passionate. 
Hearing, therefore, Lady Bellaston assume the soft tone, she 
likewise softened hers. 

“I’m sure, madam,” says she, “I have been always ready to 
acknowledge your ladyship’s friendships to me; sure I never 

had so good a friend as your ladyship and to be sure, now I 

see it is your ladyship that I spoke to, I could almost bite my 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


346 

tongue off for very mad. — I constructions upon your ladyship — 
to be sure it doth not become a servant as I am to think about 
such a great lady — I mean I was a servant: for indeed I am 
nobody’s servant now, the more miserable wretch is me. — I have 
lost the best mistress ” Here Honour thought fit to pro- 

duce a shower of tears. 

“Don’t cry, child,” says the good lady; “ways perhaps may 
be found to make you amends. Come to me to-morrow morn- 
ing-” 

She then took up her fan which lay on the ground, and with- 
out even looking at Jones walked very majestically out of the 
room ; there being a kind of dignity in the impudence of women 
of quality, which their inferiors vainly aspire to attain to in 
circumstances of this nature. 

Jones followed her downstairs, often offering her his hand, 
which she absolutely refused him, and got into her chair with- 
out taking any notice of him as he stood bowing before her. 

At his return upstairs, a long dialogue past between him and 
Mrs Honour, while she was adjusting herself after the dis- 
composure she had undergone. The subject of this was his 
infidelity to her young lady; on which she enlarged w T ith great 
bitterness; but Jones at last found means to reconcile her, and 
not only so, but to obtain a promise of most inviolable secrecy, 
and that she would the next morning endeavour to find out 
Sophia, and bring him a further account of the proceedings of 
the squire. 

Thus ended this unfortunate adventure to the satisfaction 
only of Mrs Honour; for a secret (as some of my readers will 
perhaps acknowledge from experience) is often a very valuable 
possession: and that not only to those who faithfully keep it, 
but sometimes to such as whisper it about till it come to the 
ears of every one except the ignorant person who pays for the 
supposed concealing of what is publickly known. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


Containing love-letters of several sorts and a discovery made 
by Partridge. 

OTWITHSTANDING all the obligations she had re- 
ceived from Jones, Mrs Miller could not forbear in the 
morning some gentle remonstrances for the hurricane which 
had happened the preceding night in his chamber. These were, 
however, so gentle and so friendly, professing, and indeed truly, 
to aim at nothing more than the real good of Mr Jones him- 
self, that he, far from being offended, thankfully received the 
admonition of the good woman, expressed much concern for 
what had past, excused it as well as he could, and promised never 
more to bring the same disturbances into the house. 

But though Mrs Miller did not refrain from a short expostu- 
lation in private at their first meeting, yet the occasion of his 
being summoned downstairs that morning was of a much more 
agreeable kind, being indeed to perform the office of a father 
to Miss Nancy, and to give her in w r edlock to Mr Nightingale, 
who was now ready drest, and full as sober as many of my 
readers will think a man ought to be who receives a wife in so 
imprudent a manner. 

And here perhaps it may be proper to account for the escape 
which this young gentleman had made from his uncle, and for 
his appearance in the condition in which we have seen him the 
night before. 

Now when the uncle had arrived at his lodgings with his 
nephew, partly to indulge his own inclinations (for he dearly 
loved his bottle), and partly to disqualify his nephew from the 
immediate execution of his purpose, he ordered wine to be set 
on the table; with which he so briskly plyed the young gentle- 
man, that this latter, who, though not much used to drinking, 
did not detest it so as to be guilty of disobedience or want of 
complacence by refusing, w r as soon completely finished. 

Just as the uncle had obtained this victory, and was preparing 
a bed for his nephew, a messenger arrived with a piece of news, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


348 

which so entirely disconcerted and shocked him, that he in a 
moment lost all consideration for his nephew, and his whole 
mind became entirely taken up with his own concerns. 

This sudden and afflicting news was no less than that his 
daughter had taken the opportunity of almost the first moment 
of his absence, and had gone off with a neighboring young 
clergyman. Old Mr Nightingale no sooner received this ac- 
count, than in the utmost confusion he ordered a post-chaise to 
be instantly got ready, and, having recommended his nephew to 
the care of a servant, he directly left the house, scarce knowing 
what he did, nor whither he went. 

The uncld thus departed, when the servant came to attend 
the nephew to bed, had waked him for that purpose, and had at 
last made him sensible that his uncle was gone, he, instead of 
accepting the kind offices tendered him, insisted on a chair being 
called ; with this the servant, who had received no strict orders 
to the contrary, readily complied; and, thus being conducted 
back to the house of Mrs Miller, he had staggered up to Mr 
Jones’s chamber, as hath been before recounted. 

This bar of the uncle being now removed (though young 
Nightingale knew not as yet in what manner) , and all parties 
being quickly ready, the mother, Mr Jones, Mr Nightingale, 
and his love, stept into a hackney-coach, which conveyed them 
to Doctors’ Commons; where Miss Nancy was, in vulgar lan- 
guage, soon made an honest woman, and the poor mother be- 
came, in the purest sense of the word, one of the happiest of all 
human beings. 

Mr Jones, at his return home, found the following letters 
lying on his table, which he luckily opened in the order they 
were sent: 

LETTER I. 

“Surely I am under some strange infatuation ; I cannot keep 
my resolutions a moment, however strongly made or justly 
founded. Last night I resolved never to see you more; this 
morning I am willing to hear if you can, as you 
say, clear up this affair. And yet I know that to be impos- 
sible. I have said everything to myself you can invent. 

Perhaps not. Perhaps your invention is stronger. Come to 
me, therefore, the moment you receive this. If you can forge 

an excuse I almost promise you to believe it. Betrayed too 

I will think no more. Come to me directly. This is the 

third letter I have writ, the two former are burnt 1 am 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


349 


iff 

f- 

y 

almost inclined to burn this too 1 wish I may preserve my 

senses. Come to me presently.” 

LETTER II. 

“If you ever expect to be forgiven, or even suffered within 
f? my doors, come to me this instant.” 

LETTER III. 

“I now find you was not at home when my notes came to 
your lodgings. The moment you receive this let me see you; 
1 shall not stir out ; nor shall anybody be let in but your- 
self. Sure nothing can detain you long.” 

Jones had just read over these three billets when Mr Night- 
ingale came into the room. 

“Well, Tom,” said he, “any news from Lady Bellaston, after 
last night’s adventure?” 

“The Lady Bellaston?” answered Jones very gravely. 

“Nay, dear Tom,” cries Nightingale, “don’t be so reserved 
to your friends. Though I was too drunk to see her last night, 
I saw her at the masquerade. Do you think I am ignorant 
wdio the queen of the fairies is?” 

“And did you really then know the lady at the masquerade?” 
said Jones. 

“Yes, upon my soul, did I,” said Nightingale, “and have given 
you twenty hints of it since, though you seemed always so tender 
on that point, that I would not speak plainly. I fancy, my 
friend, by your extreme nicety in this matter, you are not so 
well acquainted with the character of the lady as with her per- 
son. Don’t be angry, Tom, but upon my honour, you are not 
the first young fellow she hath debauched. Her reputation is 
in no danger, believe me.” 

Though Jones had no reason to imagine the lady to have 
been of the vestal kind when his amour began; yet, as he was 
thoroughly ignorant of the town, and had very little acquaint- 
ance in it, he had no knowledge of that character which is vul- 
garly called a demirep ; that is to say, a woman who intrigues 
with every man she likes, under the name and appearance of 
virtue ; and who, though some over-nice ladies will not be seen 
with her, is visited (as they term it) by the whole town; in 
short, whom everybody knows to be what nobody calls her. 

When he found, therefore, that Nightingale was perfectly 
acquainted with his intrigue, and began to suspect that so 
scrupulous a delicacy as he had hitherto observed was not 


350 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


quite necessary on the occasion, he gave a latitude to his friend’s 
tongue, and desired him to speak plainly what he knew, or had 
ever heard of the lady. 

Nightingale, who, in many other instances, was rather too 
effeminate in his disposition, had a pretty strong inclination to 
tittle-tattle. He had no sooner, therefore, received a full lib- 
erty of speaking from Jones, then he entered upon a long nar- 
rative concerning the lady; which, as it contained many par- 
ticulars highly to her dishonour, we have too great a tenderness 
for all women of condition to repeat. 

Jones, having very attentively heard all that Nightingale had 
to say, fetched a deep sigh; which the other, observing, cried, 
“Heyday! why, thou art not in love, I hope! Had I imagined 
my stories would have affected you, I promise you should never 
have heard them.” 

“O my dear friend!” cries Jones, “I am so entangled with 
this woman, that I know not how to extricate myself. In 
love, indeed! no, my friend, but I am under obligations to her, 
and very great ones. Since you know so much, I will be very 
explicit with you. It is owing, perhaps, solely to her, that I 
have not, before this, wanted a bit of bread. How can I pos- 
sibly desert such a woman? and yet I must desert her, or be 
guilty of the blackest treachery to one who deserves infinitely 
better of me than she can ; a woman, my Nightingale, for whom 
I have a passion which few can have an idea of. I am half 
distracted with doubts how to act.” 

“And is this other, pray, an honourable mistress?” cries Night- 
ingale. 

“Honourable!” answered Jones; “no breath ever durst sully 
her reputation. She is the most beautiful creature in the uni- 
verse: and yet she is mistress of such noble elevated qualities, 
that, though she is never from my thoughts, I scarce ever think 
of her beauty but when I see it.” 

“And can you, my good friend,” cries Nightingale, “with 
such an engagement as this upon your hands, hesitate a moment 
about quitting such a ” 

“Hold,” said Jones, “no more abuse of her: I detest the 
thought of ingratitude.” 

“Pooh!” answered the other, “you are not the first upon 
whom she hath conferred obligations of this kind. She is re- 
markably liberal where she likes; though, let me tell you, her 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


351 

favours are so prudently bestowed, that they should rather raise 
a man’s vanity than his gratitude.” 

. In short, Nightingale proceeded so far on this head, and told 
his friend so many stories of the lady, which he swore to the 
truth of, that he entirely removed all esteem for her from the 
breast of Jones; and his gratitude was lessened in proportion. 
Indeed, he began to look on all the favours he had received 
rather as wages than benefits, which depreciated not only her, 
but himself too in his own conceit, and put him quite out of 
humour with both. From this disgust, his mind, by a natural 
transition, turned towards Sophia; her virtue, her purity, her 
love to him, her sufferings on his account, filled all his thoughts, 
and made his commerce with Lady Bellaston appear still more 
odious. The result of all was, that, though his turning himself 
out of her service, in which light he now saw his affair with her, 
would be the loss of his bread ; yet he determined to quit her, if 
he could but find a handsome pretence: which being communi- 
cated to his friend, Nightingale considered a little, and then 
said, “I have it, my boy! I have found out a sure method; 
propose marriage to her, and I would venture hanging upon 
the success.” 

“Marriage?” cries Jones. 

“Ay, propose marriage,” answered Nightingale, “and she will 
declare off in a moment. I knew a young fellow whom she 
kept formerly, who made the offer to her in earnest, and was 
presently turned off for his pains.” 

Jones declared he could not venture the experiment. “Per- 
haps,” said he, “she may be less shocked at this proposal from 
one man than from another. And if she should take me at my 
word, where am I then? caught in my own trap, and undone 
for ever.” 

“No;” answered Nightingale, “not if I can give you an ex- 
pedient by which you may at any time get out of the trap.” 

“What expedient can that be?” replied Jones. 

“This,” answered Nightingale. “The young fellow I men- 
tioned, who is one of the most intimate acquaintances I have in 
the world, is so angry with her for some ill offices she hath since 
done him, that I am sure he would, without any difficulty, give 
you a sight of her letters; upon which you may decently break 
with her; and declare off before the knot is tied, if she should 
really be willing to tie it, which I am convinced she will not” 

After some hesitation, Jones, upon the strength of his assur- 


352 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


ance, consented; but, as he swore he wanted the confidence to 
propose the matter to her face, he wrote the following letter, 
which Nightingale dictated: — 

“Madam, 

“I am extremely concerned, that, by an unfortunate 
engagement abroad, I should have missed receiving the honour 
of your ladyship’s commands the moment they came; and the 
delay which I must now suffer of vindicating myself to your 
ladyship greatly adds to this misfortune. O, Lady Bellaston! 
what a terror have I been in for fear your reputation should 
be Q xposed by these perverse accidents! There is one only way 
to Secure it. I need not name what that is. Only permit me 
to say, that as your honour is as dear to me as my own, so my 
sole ambition is to have the glory of laying my liberty at your 
feet; and believe me when I assure you, I can never be made 
completely happy without you generously bestow on me a legal 
right of calling you mine for ever. — I am, 

“Madam, 

with most profound respect, 
your ladyship’s most obliged, 
obedient, humble servant, 

“Thomas Jones.” 

To this she presently returned the following answer: 

“Sir, 

“When I read over your serious epistle, I could, from 
its coldness and formality, have sworn that you already had the 
legal right you mention ; nay, that we had for many years com- 
posed that monstrous animal a husband and wife. Do you 
really then imagine me a fool ? or do you fancy yourself capable 
of so entirely persuading me out of my senses, that I should 
deliver my whole fortune into your power, in order to enable 
you to support your pleasures at my expense? Are these the 

proofs of love which I expected? Is this the return for ? 

but I scorn to upbraid you, and am in great admiration of your 
profound respect. 

"P.S . — I am prevented from revising: Perhaps I have 

said more than I meant. Come to me at eight this evening.” 

Jones, by the advice of his privy-counci!, replied: 

“Madam, 

“It is impossible to express how much I am shocked at 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


353 


the suspicion you entertain of me. Can Lady Bellaston have 
conferred favours on a man whom she could believe capable of 
so base a design? or can she treat the most solemn tie of love 
with contempt ? Can you imagine, madam, that if the violence 
of my passion, in an unguarded moment, overcame the tender- 
ness which I have for your honour, I would think of indulging 
myself in the continuance of an intercourse which could not 
possibly escape long the notice of the world; and which, when 
discovered, must prove so fatal to your reputation? If such be 
your opinion of me, I must pray for a sudden opportunity of 
returning those pecuniary obligations, which I have been so jin- 
fortunate to receive at your hands; and for those of a ; core 
tender kind, I shall ever remain, &c.” And so concluded in the 
very words with which he had concluded the former letter. 

The lady answered as follows: 

“I see you are a villain! and I despise you from my soul. If 
you come here I shall not be at home.” 

Though Jones was well satisfied with his deliverance from a 
thraldom which those who have ever experienced it will, I ap- 
prehend, allow to be none of the lightest, he was not, however, 
perfectly easy in his mind. There was in this scheme too much 
of fallacy to satisfy one who utterly detested every species of 
falsehood or dishonesty. Nightingale highly exulted in the suc- 
cess of his stratagem, upon which he received many thanks and 
much applause from his friend. He answered, “Dear Tom, we 
have conferred very different obligations on each other. To 
me you owe the regaining of your liberty; to you I owe the loss 
of mine. But if you are as happy in the one instance as I am in 
the other, I promise you we are the two happiest fellows in 
England.” 

The two gentlemen were now summoned down to dinner, 
where Mrs Miller, who performed herself the office of cook, 
had exerted her best talents to celebrate tl e wedding of her 
daughter. This joyful circumstance she ascribed principally 
to the friendly behaviour of Jones, her whole soul was fired 
with gratitude towards him, and all her looks, words, and 
actions, were so busied in expressing it, that her daughter, and 
even her new son-in-law, were very little objects of her con- 
sideration. , , A 

Dinner was just ended when Mrs Miller received a letter 


354 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


from Mr Allworthy, and the purport of it was, his intention to 
come immediately to town, with his nephew Blifil, and a desire 
to be accommodated with his usual lodgings, which were the 
first floor for himself, and the second for his nephew. 

The chearfulness which had before displayed itself in the 
countenance of the poor woman was a little clouded on this 
occasion. This news did indeed a good deal disconcert her. To 
requite so disinterested a match with her daughter, by presently 
turning her new son-in-law out of doors, appeared to her very 
unjustifiable on the one hand; and on the other, she could 
scarce bear the thoughts of making any excuse to Mr Allworthy, 
after all the obligations received from him. She could not con- 
ceal her uneasiness at this letter; with the contents of which 
she had no sooner acquainted the company, and given some 
hints of her distress, than Jones, her good angel, presently re- 
lieved her anxiety. 

“As for myself, madam,” said he, “my lodging is at your 
service at a moment’s warning; and Mr Nightingale, I am 
sure, as he cannot yet prepare a house fit to receive his lady, will 
consent to return to his new lodging, whither Mrs Nightingale 
will certainly consent to go.” With which proposal both hus- 
band and wife instantly agreed. 

The reader will easily believe, that the cheeks of Mrs Mil- 
ler began again to glow with additional gratitude to Jones; but,, 
perhaps, it may be more difficult to persuade him, that Mr 
Jones having in his last speech called her daughter Mrs Night- 
ingale (it being the first time that agreeable sound had ever 
reached her ears), gave the fond mother more satisfaction, and 
warmed her heart more towards Jones, than his having dis- 
sipated her present anxiety. 

The next day was then appointed for the removal of the 
new-married couple, and of Mr Jones, who was likewise to be 
provided for in the same house with his friend. And now the 
serenity of the company was again restored, and they past the 
day in the utmost chearfulness, all except Jones, who, though 
he outwardly accompanied the rest in their mirth, felt many 
a bitter pang on the account of his Sophia, which were not a 
little heightened by the news of Mr Blifil’s coming to town 
(for he clearly saw the intention of his journey) ; and what 
greatly aggravated his concern was, that Mrs Honour, who 
had promised to inquire after Sophia, and to make her report 
to him early the next evening, had disappointed him. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


355 


At last, being unable any longer to conceal his uneasiness, 
he retired to his room; where his anxiety had made him al- 
most frantic, when a letter was brought him from Mrs Honour, 
j stating that Lady Bellaston had offered her a good place, which 
she had accepted, and so could be of no further service to him. 

Jones had just finished the perusal of this epistle when 
Partridge came capering into the room, as was his custom when 
he brought, or fancied he brought, any good tidings. He had 
been despatched that morning by his master, with orders to en- 
deavour, by the servants of Lady Bellaston, or by any other 
means, to discover whither Sophia had been conveyed; and he 
now returned, and with a joyful countenance told our hero 
that he had found the lost bird. 

“I have seen, sir,” says he, “Black George, the gamekeeper, 
who is one of the servants whom the squire hath brought with 
him to town. I knew him presently, though I have not seen 
him these several years; but you know, sir, he is a very re- 
markable man, or, to use a purer phrase, he hath a most re- 
markable beard, the largest and blackest I ever saw. It was 
some time, however, before Black George could recollect me.” 

“Well, but what is your good news?” cries Jones; “what do 
you know of my Sophia?” 

“You shall know presently, sir,” answered Partridge, “I am 
coming to it as fast as I can. You are so impatient, sir, you 
would come at the infinitive mood before you can get to the 
imperative. As I was saying, sir, it was some time before he 
recollected my face.” 

“Confound your face!” cries Jones, “what of my Sophia?” 

“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “I know nothing more of 
Madam Sophia than what I am going to tell you ; and I should 
have told you all before this if you had not interrupted me; 
but if you look so angry at me you will frighten all of it out 
of my head, or, to use a purer phrase, out of my memory. I 
never saw you look so angry since the day we left Upton, which 
I shall remember if I was to live a thousand years. 

“Well, pray go on your own way,” said Jones: “you are 
resolved to make me mad I find.” 

“Not for the world,” answered Partridge, “I have suffered 
enough for that already; which, as I said, I shall bear in my 
remembrance the longest day I have to live.” 

“Well, but Black George?” cries Jones. 

“Well, sir, as I was saying, it was a long time before he could 


356 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


recollect me; for, indeed, I am very much altered since I saw 
him. . Non sum qualis eram. I have had troubles in the world, 
and nothing alters a man so much as grief. I have heard it 
will change the colour of a man’s hair in a night. However, 
at last, know me he did, that’s sure enough; for we are both 
of an age, and were at the same charity school. George was a 
great dunce, but no matter for that; all men do not thrive in 
the world according to their learning. I am sure I have rea- 
son to say so; but it will be all one a thousand years hence. 

Well, sir, where was I ? O — well, we no sooner knew each 

other, than, after many hearty shakes by the hand, we agreed 
to go to an alehouse and take a pot, and by good luck the beer 
was some of the best I have met with since I have been in 
town. Now, sir, I am coming to the point; for no sooner did 
I name you, and told him that you and I came to town together, 
and had lived together ever since, than he called for another 
pot, and swore he would drink to your health; and indeed he 
drank your health so heartily that I was overjoyed to see there 
was so much gratitude left in the world ; and after we had 
emptied that pot I said I would be my pot too, and so we drank 
another to your health ; and then I made haste home to tell you 
the news.” 

“What news?” cries Jones, “you have not mentioned a word 
of my Sophia!” 

“Bless me! I had like to have forgot that. Indeed, we men- 
tioned a great deal about young Madam Western, and George 
told me all; that Mr Blifil is coming to town in order to be 
married to her. He had best make haste then, says I, or some- 
body will have her before he comes; and, indeed, says I, Mr 
Seagrim, it is a thousand pities somebody should not have her; 
for he certainly loves her above all the women in the world. 

I would have both you and she know, that it is not for her 
fortune he follows her; for I can assure you, as to matter of 
that, there is another lady, one of much greater quality and 
fortune than she can pretend to, who is so fond of somebody 
that she comes after him day and night.” 

Here Jones fell into a passion with Partridge, for having, as 
he said, betrayed him; but the poor fellow answered, he had 
mentioned no name. 

“Besides, sir,” said he, “I can assure you George is sincerely 
your friend, and wished Mr Blifil at the devil more than once; 
nay, he said he would do anything in his power upon earth to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


357 


serve you ; and so I am convinced he will. Betray you, indeed ! 
why, I question whether you have a better friend than George 
upon earth, except myself, or one that would go farther to 
serve you.” 

“Well,” says Jones, a little pacified, “you say this fellow*, 
who, I believe, indeed, is enough inclined to be my friend, lives 
in the same house with Sophia?” 

“In the same house!” answered Partridge; “why, sir, he is 
one of the servants of the family, and very well drest I promise 
you he is; if it was not for his black beard you would hardly 
know him.” 

“One service then at least he may do me,” says Jones: “sure 
he can certainly convey a letter to my Sophia.” 

“You have hit the nail ad unguem ,” cries Partridge; “how 
came I not to think of it? I will engage he shall do it upon 
the very first mentioning.” 

“Well, then,” said Jones, “do you leave me at present, and 
I will write a letter, which you shall deliver to him to-morrow 
morning; for I suppose you know where to find him.” 

“O yes, sir,” answered Partridge, “I shall certainly find him 
again ; there is no fear of that. The liquor is too good for him 
to stay away long. I make no doubt but he will be there every 
day he stays in town.” 

“So you don’t know the street then where my Sophia is 
lodged?” cries Jones. 

“Indeed, sir, I do,” says Partridge. 

“What is the name of the street?” cries Jones. 

“The name, sir? why, here, sir, just by,” answered Partridge, 
“not above a street or two off. I don’t, indeed, know the very 
name; for, as he never told me, if I had asked, you know, it 
might have put some suspicion into his head. No, no, sir, let 
me alone for that. I am too cunning for that, I promise 

1J 

you. 

“Thou art most wonderfully cunning, indeed,” replied Jones; 
“however, I will write to my charmer, since I believe you will 
be cunning enough to find him to-morrow at the alehouse.” 

And now, having dismissed the sagacious Partridge, Mr 
Jones sat himself down to write, in which employment we shall 
leave him for a time. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


The distressed situation of Sophia and the means by which 
she is delivered from her confinement. 

must now convey the reader to Mr Western’s lodg- 
ings, which were in Piccadilly, where he was placed 
by the recommendation of the landlord at the Hercules Pillars 
at Hyde Park Corner; for at the inn, which was the first he 
saw on his arrival in town, he placed his horses, and in those 
lodgings, which were the first he heard of, he deposited him- 
self. 

Here, when Sophia alighted from the hackney-coach, which 
brought her from the house of Lady Bellaston, she desired to 
retire to the apartment provided for her; to which her father 
very readily agreed, and whither he attended her himself. A 
short dialogue, neither very material nor pleasant to relate 
minutely, then passed between them, in which he pressed her 
vehemently to give her consent to the marriage with Blifil, 
who, as he acquainted her, was to be in town in a few days; 
but, instead of complying, she gave a more peremptory and reso- 
lute refusal than she had ever done before. This so incensed 
her father, that after many bitter vows, that he would force her 
to have him whether she would or no, he departed from her with 
many hard words and curses, locked the door, and put the key 
into his pocket. 

Though Sophia eat but little, yet she was regularly served 
with her meals, and the dinner-hour being arrived, Black George 
carried her up a pullet, the squire himself (for he had sworn 
not to part with the key) attending the door. Sophia would 
have had him take the pullet back, saying, she could not eat; 
but George begged her to try, and particularly recommended 
to her the eggs, of which he said it was full. 

Though vexation hath not the same effect on all persons as 
it usually hath on a widow, whose appetite it often renders 
sharper than it can be rendered by the air on Bansted Downs, 
or Salisbury Plain; yet the sublimest grief, notwithstanding 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 359 

what some people may say to the contrary, will eat at last. 
And Sophia, herself, after some little consideration, began to 
dissect the fowl, which she found to be as full of eggs as George 
had reported it. 

But, if she was pleased with these, it contained something 
which would have delighted the Royal Society much more, for if 
a fowl with three legs be so invaluable a curiosity, when per- 
haps time hath produced a thousand such, at what price shall 
we esteem a bird which so totally contradicts all the laws of 
animal Geconomy, as to contain a letter in its belly ? 

But though a miracle of this kind might have engaged all 
the Academies des Sciences in Europe, and perhaps in a fruitless 
enquiry; yet the reader, by barely recollecting the last dialogue 
which passed between Messieurs Jones and Partridge, will be 
very easily satisfied from whence this letter came, and how it 
found its passage into the fowl. 

Sophia, notwithstanding her long fast, and notwithstanding 
her favourite dish was there before her, no sooner saw the letter 
than she immediately snatched it up, tore it open, and read as 
follows : — 

“Madam, 

“Was I not sensible to whom I have the honour of writ- 
ing, I should endeavour, however difficult, to paint the horrors 
of my mind' at the account brought me by Mrs Honour; but as 
tenderness alone can have any true idea of the pangs which 
tenderness is capable of feeling, so can this most amiable quality, 
which my Sophia possesses in the most eminent degree, suffi- 
ciently inform her what her Jonesvmust have suffered on this 
melancholy occasion. Is there a circumstance in the world 
which can heighten my agonies, when I hear of any misfortune 
which hath befallen you? Surely there is one only, and with 
that I am accursed. It is, my Sophia, the dreadful consideration 
that I am myself the wretched cause. Perhaps I here do my- 
self too much honour, but none will envy me an honour which 
costs me so extremely dear. Pardon me this presumption, and 
pardon me a greater still, if I ask you, whether my advice, my 
assistance, my presence, my absence, my death, or my tortures 
can bring you any relief ? Can the most perfect admiration, the 
most watchful observance, the most ardent love, the most melt- 
ing tenderness, the most resigned submission to your will, make 
you amends for what you are to sacrifice to my happiness? If 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


360 

they can, fly, my lovely angel, to those arms which are ever 
open to receive and protect you ; and to which, whether, you 
bring yourself alone, or the riches of the world with you, is, in 
my opinion, an alternative not worth regarding. If, on the con- 
trary, wisdom shall predominate, and, on the most mature re- 
flection, inform you, that the sacrifice is too great; and if there 
be no way left to reconcile your father, and restore the peace 
of your dear mind, but by abandoning me, I conjure you drive 
me for ever from your thoughts, exert your resolution, and 
let no compassion for my sufferings bear the least .weight 
in that tender bosom. Believe me, madam, I so sincerely 
love you better than myself, that my great and principal 
end is your happiness. My first wish (why would not 
fortune indulge me in it?) was, and pardon me if I say, 
still is, to see you every moment the happiest of women; 
my second wish is, to hear you are so ; but no misery on 
earth can equal mine, while I think you owe an uneasy mo- 
ment to him who is, 

“Madam, 

in every sense, and to every purpose, 
your devoted, 

“Thomas Jones.” 

In the evening, while Sophia was meditating on the letter 
she had received, or on something else, a violent noise from 
below disturbed her meditations. This noise was no other than 
a round bout at altercation between two persons. One of the 
combatants, by his voice, she immediately distinguished to be 
her father; but she did not so soon discover the shriller pipes 
to belong to the organ of her aunt Western, who was just ar- 
rived in town, where having, by means of one of her servants, 
who stopt at the Hercules Pillars, learned where her brother 
lodged, she drove directly to his lodgings. 

The squire and the parson (for the landlord was now other- 
wise engaged,) were smoaking their pipes together, when the ar- 
rival of the lady was first signified. The squire no sooner heard 
her name, than he immediately ran down to usher her upstairs; 
for he was a great observer of such ceremonials, especially to 
his sister, of whom he stood more in awe than of any other 
human creature, though he never would own this, nor did he 
perhaps know it himself. 

Mrs Western, on her arrival in the dining-room, having 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


361 


flung herself into a chair, began thus to harangue: “Well, 
surely, no one ever had such an intolerable journey. I think 
the roads, since so many turnpike acts, are grown worse than 
ever. La, brother, how could you get into this odious place? 
no person of condition, I dare swear, ever set foot here be- 
fore.” 

“I don’t know,” cries the squire, “I think they do well 
enough; it was landlord recommended them. I thought, as he 
knew most of the quality, he could best shew me where to get 
among um.” 

“Well, and where’s my niece?” says the lady; “have you 
been to wait upon Lady Bellaston yet?” 

“Ay, ay,” cries the squire, “your niece is safe enough; she is 
upstairs in chamber.” 

“How!” answered the lady, “is my niece in this house, and 
does she not know of my being here?” 

“No, nobody can well get to her,” says the squire, “for she is 
under lock and key. I have her safe; I vetched her from my 
lady cousin the first night I came to town, and I have taken 
care o’ her ever since ; she is as secure as a fox in a bag, I promise 
you.” 

“Good heaven!” returned Mrs Western, “what do I hear? 
I thought what a fine piece of work would be the consequence 
of my consent to your coming to town yourself; nay, it was 
indeed your own headstrong will, nor can I charge myself with 
having ever consented to it. Did not you promise me, brother, 
that you would take none of these headstrong measures? Was 
it not by these headstrong measures that you forced my niece 
to run away from you in the country? Have you a mind to 
oblige her to take such another step?” 

“Z ds and the devil!” cries the squire, dashing his pipe 

on the ground; “did ever mortal hear the like? when I ex- 
pected you would have commended me for all I have done, to be 
fallen upon in this manner!” 

“How, brother!” said the lady, “have I ever given you the 
least reason to imagine I should commend you for locking up 
your daughter? Have I not often told you that women in a 
free country are not to be treated with such arbitrary power? 
We are as free as the men, and I heartily wish I could not say 
we deserve that freedom better. If you expect I should stay a 
moment longer in this wretched house, or that I should ever 
own you again as my relation, or that I should ever trouble 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


362 

myself again with the affairs of your family, I insist upon it 
that my niece be set at liberty this instant.” 

This she spoke with so commanding an air, standing with 
her back to the fire, with one hand behind her, and a pinch 
of snuff in the other, that I question whether Thalestris, at the 
head of her Amazons, ever made a more tremendous figure. It 
is no wonder, therefore, that the poor squire was not proof 
against the awe which she inspired. 

“There,” he cried, throwing down the key, “there it is, do 
whatever you please. I intended only to have kept her up till 
Blifil came to town, which can’t be long; and now if any harm 
happens in the mean time, remember who is to be blamed for 
it.” 

“I will answer it with my life,” cried Mrs Western, “but 
I shall not intermeddle at all, unless upon one condition, and 
that is, that you will commit the whole entirely to my care, 
without taking any one measure yourself, unless I shall event- 
ually appoint you to act. If you ratify these preliminaries, 
brother, I yet will endeavour to preserve the honour of your 
family; if not, I shall continue in a neutral state.” 

“I pray you, good sir,” said the parson, “permit yourself this 
once to be admonished by her ladyship: peradventure, by com- 
muning with young Madam Sophia, she will effect more than 
you have been able to perpetrate by more rigorous measures.” 

“What, dost thee open upon me?” cries the squire: “if thee 
dost begin to babble, I shall whip thee in presently.” 

“Fie, brother,” answered the lady, “is this language to a 
clergyman? Mr Supple is a man of sense, and gives you the 
best advice; and the whole world, I believe, will concur in his 
opinion ; but I must tell you I expect an immediate answer to 
my categorical proposals. Either cede your daughter to my 
disposal, or take her wholly to your own surprizing discretion, 
and then I here, before Mr Supple, evacuate the garrison, and 
renounce you and your family for ever.” 

“I pray you let me be a mediator,” cries the parson, “let me 
supplicate you.” 

“Why, there lies the key on the table,” cries the squire. 
“She may take un up, if she pleases: who hinders her?” 

“No, brother,” answered the lady, “I insist on the formality 
of its being delivered me, with a full ratification of all the con- 
cessions stipulated.” 

“Why then I will deliver it to you. — There ’tis,” cries the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 363 

squire. I am sure, sister, you can’t accuse me of ever deny- 
mg to trust my daughter to you. She hath a-lived wi’ you a 
whole year and muore to a time, without my ever zeeing her.” 

“And it would have been happy for her,” answered the lady, 

if she had always lived with me. Nothing of this kind would 
have happened under my eye.” 

“Ay, certainly,” cries he, “I only am to blame.” 

Why, you are to blame, brother,” answered she. “I have 
been often obliged to tell you so, and shall always be obliged to 
tell you so. However, I hope you will now amend, and gather 
so much experience from past errors, as not to defeat my wisest 
machinations by your blunders. Indeed, brother, you are not 
qualified for these negociations. All your whole scheme of 
politics is wrong. I once more, therefore, insist, that you do 
not intermeddle. Remember only what is past.” 

“Z ds and bl — d, sister,” cries the squire, “what would 

you have me say? You are enough to provoke the devil.” 

“There, now,” said she, “just according to the old custom. 
I see, brother, there is no talking to you. I will appeal to 
Mr Supple, who is a man of sense, if I said anything which 
could put any human creature into a passion; but you are so 
wrongheaded every way.” 

“Let me beg you, madam,” said the parson, “not to irritate 
his worship.” 

“Irritate him?” said the lady; “sure, you are as great a fool 
as himself. Well, brother, since you have promised not to in- 
terfere, I will once more undertake the management of my 
niece. Lord have mercy upon all affairs which are under the 
directions of men ! The head of one woman is worth a thousand 
of yours.” And now having summoned a servant to show her 
to Sophia, she departed, bearing the key with her. 

She was no sooner gone, than the squire (having first shut 
the door) ejaculated twenty bitches, and as many hearty curses 
against her, not sparing himself for having ever thought of her 
estate; but added, “Now one hath been a slave so long, it 
would be pity to lose it at last, for want of holding out a little 
longer. The bitch can’t live for ever, and I know I am down 
for it upon the will.” 

The parson greatly commended this resolution : and now the 
squire having ordered in another bottle, which was his usual 
method when anything either pleased or vexed him, did, by 
drinking plentifully of this medicinal julap, so totally wash 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


364 

away his choler, that his temper was become perfectly placid 
and serene, when Mrs Western returned with Sophia into 
the room. The young lady had on her hat and capuchin, and 
the aunt acquainted Mr Western that she intended to take 
her niece with her to her own lodgings ; “for, indeed, brother,” 
says she, “these rooms are not fit to receive a Christian soul in.” 

“Very well, madam,” quoth Western, “whatever you please. 
The girl can never be in better hands than yours ; and the par- 
son here can do me the justice to say, that I have said fifty 
times behind your back, that you was one of the most sensible 
women in the world.” 

“To this,” cries the parson, “I am ready to bear testimony.” 

“Nay, brother,” says Mrs Western, “I have always, I’m sure, 
given you as favourable a character. You must own you have 
a little too much hastiness in your temper; but when you will 
allow yourself time to reflect I never knew a man more rea- 
sonable.” 

“Why then, sister, if you think so,” said the squire, “here’s 
your good health with all my heart. I am a little passionate 
sometimes, but I scorn to bear any malice. Sophy, do you be 
a good girl, and do everything your aunt orders you.” 

“I have not the least doubt of her,” answered Mrs Western. 
“She hath had already an example before her eyes in the be- 
haviour of that wretch her cousin Harriet, who ruined herself 
by neglecting my advice. O brother, what think you? You 
was hardly gone out of hearing, when you set out for London, 
when who should arrive but that impudent fellow with the 
odious Irish name — that Fitzpatrick. He broke in abruptly 
upon me without notice, or I would not have seen him. He 
ran on a long, unintelligible story about his wife, to which he 
forced me to give him a hearing; but I made him very little 
answer, and delivered him the letter from his wife, which I bid 
him answer himself. I suppose the wretch will endeavour to 
find us out, but I beg you will not see her, for I am determined 
I will not.” 

“I zee her!” answered the squire; “you need not fear me. 
I’ll ge no encouragemant to such undutiful wenches. It is well 
for the fellow, her husband, I was not at huome. Od rabbit it, 
he should have taken a dance thru the horse-pond, I promise 
un. You zee, Sophy, what undutifulness brings volks to. You 
have an example in your own family.” 

“Brother,” cries the aunt, “you need not shock my niece by 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 365 

such odious repetitions. Why will you not leave everything 
entirely to me?” 

“Well, well, I wull, I wull,” said the squire. 

And now Mrs Western, luckily for Sophia, put an end to 
the conversation by ordering chairs to be called. I say luckily, 
for had it continued much longer, fresh matter of dissension 
would, most probably, have arisen between the brother and 
sister; between whom education and sex made the only differ- 
ence; for both were equally violent and equally positive: they 
had both a vast affection for Sophia, and both a sovereign con- 
tempt for each other. 

But Sophia’s deliverance from her father’s design was not 
to be of long duration, for, upon leaving home, the squire had 
despatched away a messenger to acquaint Blifil with his having 
found Sophia, and with his firm resolution to marry her to 
him immediately, if he would come up after him to town. 

As the love which Blifil had for Sophia was of that violent 
kind which nothing but the loss of her fortune could lessen, 
his inclination to the match was not at all altered by her having 
run away. There was much difficulty, however, in his way, and 
this arose from Mr Allworthy. That good man, when he 
found, by the departure of Sophia, the great aversion which 
she had for his nephew, began to be seriously concerned that he 
had been deceived into carrying matters so far. 

Blifil indeed soon cured his uncle of all anger on the score 
of deceit, by many vows and protestations that he had been de- 
ceived himself, with which the many declarations of Western 
very well tallied ; but now to persuade Allworthy to consent 
to the renewing his addresses was a matter of such apparent 
difficulty, that the very appearance was sufficient to have de- 
terred a less enterprizing genius; but this young gentleman so 
well knew his own talents, that nothing within the province 
of cunning seemed to him hard to be achieved. 

Here then he represented the violence of his own affection, 
and the hopes of subduing aversion in the lady by perseverance. 
He begged that, in an affair on which depended all his future 
repose, he might at least be at liberty to try all fair means for 
success. Heaven forbid, he said, that he should ever think of 
prevailing by any other than the most gentle methods! He 
urged the great and eager desire which Mr Western had for 
the match ; and lastly, he made great use of the name of Jones, 
to whom he imputed all that had happened ; and from whom, 


3 66 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


he said, to preserve so valuable a young lady was even an act 
of charity. 

All these arguments were well seconded by Thwackum, who 
dwelt a little stronger on the authority of parents than Mr 
Blifil himself had done. Square, possibly, had he been present, 
would have sung to the same tune, though in a different key, and 
would have discovered much moral fitness in the proceeding: 
but he was now gone to Bath for the recovery of his health. 

Allworthy, though not without reluctance, at last yielded 
to the desires of his nephew. He said he would accompany 
him to London, where he might be at liberty to use every honest 
endeavour to gain the lady. 

Blifil, having obtained this unhoped-for acquiescence in his 
uncle, rested not till he carried his purpose into execution. And 
as no immediate business required Mr Allworthy’s presence 
in the country, and little preparation is necessary to men for a 
journey, they set out the very next day, and arrived in town 
that evening. 

The morning after his arrival Mr Blifil waited on Mr 
Western, by whom he was most kindly and graciously received, 
and from whom he had every possible assurance (perhaps more 
than was possible) that he should very shortly be as happy as 
Sophia could make him ; nor would the squire suffer the young 
gentleman to return to his uncle till he had, almost against 
his will, carried him to his sister. 

Mrs Western was reading a lecture on prudence, and 
matrimonial politics, to her niece, when her brother and 
Blifil broke in with less ceremony than the laws of visiting 
require. Sophia no sooner saw Blifil than she turned pale, and 
almost lost the use of all her faculties ; but her aunt, on the con- 
trary, waxed red, and, having all her faculties at command, 
began to exert her tongue on the squire. 

“Brother,” said she, “ I am astonished at your behaviour; will 
you never learn any regard to decorum? Will you still look 
upon every apartment as your own, or as belonging to one of 
your country tenants? Do you think yourself at liberty to in- 
vade the privacies of women of condition, without the least 
decency or notice?” 

“Why, what a pox is the matter now?” quoth the squire; 

“one would think I had caught you at ” 

“None of your brutality, sir, I beseech you,” answered she. 
“You have surprized my poor niece so, that she can hardly, I see, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


367 

support herself. Go, my dear, retire, and endeavour to re- 

cruit your spirits ; for I see you have occasion.” At which words 
Sophia, who never received a more welcome command, hastily 
withdrew. 

“To be sure, sister,” cries the squire, “you are mad, when I 
have brought Mr Blifil here to court her, to force her away.” 

“Sure, brother,” says she, “you are worse than mad, when 

you know in what situation affairs are, to 1 am sure I ask 

Mr Blifil’s pardon, but he knows very well to whom to impute 
so disagreeable a reception. For my own part, I am sure I shall 
always be very glad to see Mr Blifil; but his own good sense 
would not have suffered him to proceed so abruptly, had you 
not compelled him to it.” 

“I am very sorry, madam,” cried Blifil, “that Mr Western’s 
extraordinary kindness to me, which I can never enough ac- 
knowledge, should have occasioned ” 

“Indeed, sir,” said she, interrupting him, “you need make no 
apologies, we all know my brother so well.” 

“I don’t care what anybody knows of me,” answered the 
squire; “but when must he come to see her? for, consider, I tell 
you, he is come up on purpose, and so is Allworthy.” 

“Brother,” said she, “whatever message Mr Blifil thinks 
proper to send to my niece shall be delivered to her ; and I sup- 
pose she will want no instructions to make a proper answer. I 
am convinced she will not refuse to see Mr Blifil at a proper 
time.” 

“The devil she won’t!” answered the squire. 4< Odsbud! — 
Don’t we know — I say nothing, but some volk are wiser than 

all the world. If I might have had my will, she had not run 

away before: and now I expect to hear every moment she is 
guone again. For as great a fool as some volk think me, I know 
very well she hates ” 

“No matter, brother,” replied Mrs Western, “I will not hear 
my niece abused. It is a reflection on my family. She is an 
honour to it; and she will be an honour to it, I promise you. 
I will pawn my whole reputation in the world on her conduct. 

1 shall be glad to see you, brother, in the afternoon ; for I 

have somewhat of importance to mention to you. At present, 
Mr Blifil, as well as you, must excuse me; for I am in haste to 
dress.” 

“Well, but,” said the squire, “do appoint a time.” 


368 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Indeed,” said she, “I can appoint no time. I tell you I will 
see you in the afternoon.” 

“What the devil would you have me do?” cries the squire, 
turning to Blifil ; “I can no more turn her, than a beagle can 
turn an old hare. Perhaps she will be in a better humour in 
the afternoon.” 

“I am condemned, I see, sir, to misfortune,” answered Blifil; 
“but I shall always own my obligations to you.” 

He then took a ceremonious leave of Mrs Western, who was 
altogether as ceremonious on her part; and then they departed, 
the squire muttering to himself with an oath, that Blifil should 
see his daughter in the afternoon. 

If Mr Western was little pleased with this interview, Blifil 
was less. As to the former, he imputed the whole behaviour of 
his sister to her humour only, and to her dissatisfaction at the 
omission of ceremony in the visit ; but Blifil saw a little deeper 
into things. He suspected somewhat of more consequence, from 
two or three words which dropt from the lady ; and, to say the 
truth, he suspected right, for she had become a partisan of Lord 
Fellamar. 

Love had taken too deep a root in the mind of that gentle- 
man to be plucked up by the rude hands of Mr Western. In 
the afternoon then next after the intended rape of Sophia, his 
lordship made a visit to Lady Bellaston, who laid open so much 
of the character of the squire, that his lordship plainly saw the 
absurdity of taking any offence at his words, especially as he 
had those honourable designs on his daughter. He then un- 
bosomed the violence of his passion to Lady Bellaston, who 
readily undertook the cause, and encouraged him with certain 
assurance of a most favourable reception from all the elders of 
the family, and from the father himself when he should be sober, 
and should be made acquainted with the nature of the offer made 
to his daughter. The only danger, she said, lay in the fellow 
she had formerly mentioned, who, though a beggar and a vaga- 
bond, had, by some means or other, she knew not what, procured 
himself tolerable clothes, and past for a gentleman. 

“Now,” says she, “as I have, for the sake of my cousin, made 
it my business to enquire after this fellow, I have luckily found 
out his lodgings ;” with which she then acquainted his lordship. 
“I am thinking, my lord,” added she “(for this fellow is too 
mean for your personal resentment), whether it would not be 
possible for your lordship to contrive some method of having 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


369 


him pressed and sent on board a ship. Neither law nor con- 
science forbid this project: for the fellow, I promise you, how- 
ever well drest, is but a vagabond, and as proper as any fellow 
'in the streets to be pressed into the service; and as for the con- 
scientious part, surely the preservation of a young lady from 
such ruin is a most meritorious act.” 

Lord Fellamar very heartily thanked her ladyship for the 
part which she w T as pleased to fake in the affair, upon the success 
of which his whole future happiness entirely depended. He said, 
he saw at present no objection to the pressing scheme, and 
would consider of putting it in execution. He then most 
earnestly recommended to her ladyship to do him the honour of 
immediately mentioning his proposals to the family; to whom 
he said he offered a carte blanche , and would settle his fortune 
in almost any manner they should require. 

The moment Mrs Western was arrived at her lodgings, a 
card was despatched with her compliments to Lady Bellaston; 
who no sooner received it than, with the impatience of a lover, 
she flew to her cousin. The two ladies being met, after very 
short previous ceremonials, fell to business, which was indeed 
almost as soon concluded as begun ; for Mrs Western no sooner 
heard the name of Lord Fellamar than her cheeks glowed with 
pleasure; but when she was acquainted with the eagerness of 
his passion, the earnestness of his proposals, and the generosity 
of his offer, she declared her full satisfaction in the most explicit 
terms. 

In the progress of their conversation their discourse turned to 
Jones, and both cousins very pathetically lamented the unfortu- 
nate attachment which both agreed Sophia had to that young 
fellow; and Mrs Western entirely attributed it to the folly of 
her brother’s management. She concluded, however, at last, 
with declaring her confidence in the good understanding of her 
niece, who, though she would not give up her affection in favour 
of Blifil, “will, I doubt not,” says she, “soon be prevailed upon 
to sacrifice a simple inclination to the addresses of a fine gentle- 
man, who brings her both a title and a large estate: For, in- 
deed,” added she, “I must do Sophy the justice to confess this 
Blifil is but a hideous kind of fellow, as you know, Bellaston, 
all country gentlemen are, and hath nothing but his fortune to 
recommend him.” 

“Nay,” said Lady Bellaston, “I don’t then so much wonder 
at my cousin ; for I promise you this Jones is a very agreeable 


370 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


fellow, and hath one virtue, which the men say is a great recom- 
mendation to us. What do you think, Mrs Western — I shall 
certainly make you laugh ; nay, I can hardly tell you myself for 
laughing — will you believe that the fellow hath had the assur- 
ance to make love to me? But if you should be inclined to 
disbelieve it, here is evidence enough, his own handwriting, I 
assure you.” 

She then delivered her cousin the letter with the proposals of 
marriage. 

“Upon my word I am astonished,” said Mrs Western ; “this 
is, indeed, a masterpiece of assurance. With your leave I may 
possibly make some use of this letter.” 

“You have* my full liberty,” cries Lady Bellaston, “to apply 
it to what purpose you please. However, I would not have it 
shewn to any but Miss Western, nor to her unless you find 
occasion.” 

“Well, and how did you use the fellow?” returned Mrs 
Western. 

“Not as a husband,” said the lady; “I am not married, I 
promise you, my dear. You know, Bell, I have tried the com- 
forts once already; and once, I think, is enough for any reason- 
able woman.” 

This letter Lady Bellaston thought would certainly turn the 
balance against Jones in the mind of Sophia, and she was 
emboldened to give it up, partly by her hopes of having him 
instantly dispatched out of the way, and partly by having secured 
the evidence of Honour, who, upon sounding her, she saw suffi- 
cient reason to imagine was prepared to testify whatever she 
pleased. 

Now this was the affair which Mrs Western was preparing 
to introduce to Sophia, by some prefatory discourse on the folly 
of love, and on the wisdom of legal prostitution for hire, when 
her brother and Blifil broke abruptly in upon her; and hence 
arose all that coldness in her behaviour to Blifil, which, though 
the squire, as was usual with him, imputed to a wrong cause, 
infused into Blifil himself (he being a much more cunning man) 
a suspicion of the real truth. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

In which Jones goes to a play with Mrs Miller and Partridge 
and pays a visit to Mrs Fitzpatrick . 

QUR reader may now, perhaps, be pleased to return with us 

to Mr Jones, to whom, by the means of Black George, a 
letter was conveyed from Sophia, who had written it the very 
evening when she departed from her confinement: 

“Sir, 

“As I do not doubt your sincerity in what you write, you 
will be pleased to hear that some of my afflictions are at an 
end, by the arrival of my aunt Western, with whom I am at 
present, and with whom I enjoy all the liberty I can desire. 
One promise my aunt hath insisted on my making, which is, 
that I will not see or converse with any person without her 
knowledge and consent. This promise I have most solemnly 
given, and shall most inviolably keep: and though she hath not 
expressly forbidden me writing, yet that must be an omission 
from forgetfulness; or this, perhaps, is included in the word 
conversing. However, as I cannot but consider this as a breach 
of her generous confidence in my honour, you cannot expect that 
I shall, after this, continue to write myself or to receive letters, 
without her knowledge. A promise is with me a very sacred 
thing, and to be extended to everything understood from it, as 
well as to what is expressed by it; and this consideration may, 
perhaps, on reflection, afford you some comfort. But why 
should I mention a comfort to you of this kind; for though 
there is one thing in which I can never comply with the best of 
fathers, yet am I firmly resolved never to act in defiance of him, 
or to take any step of consequence without his consent. A firm 
persuasion of this must teach you to divert your thoughts from 
what fortune hath (perhaps) made impossible. This your own 
interest persuades you. This may reconcile, I hope, Mr All- 
worthy to you; and if it will, you have my injunctions to pursue 
it. Accidents have laid some obligations on me, and your good 
intentions probably more. Fortune may, perhaps, be some time 


372 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


kinder to us both than at present. Believe this, that I shall 
always think of you as I think you deserve, and am, 

“Sir, 

your obliged humble servant, 

“Sophia Western. 

“I charge you write to me no more — at present at least ; and 
accept this, which is now of no service to me, which I know 
you must want, and think you owe the trifle only to that fortune 
by which you found it.”* 

Mr. Jones having spent three hours in reading and kissing the 
aforesaid letter, agreed to carry an appointment, which he had 
before made, into execution. This was, to attend Mrs Miller, 
and her younger daughter, into the gallery at the play-house, 
and to admit Mr Partridge as one of the company. 

In the first row then of the first gallery did Mr Jones, Mrs 
Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. 
Partridge immediately declared it was the finest place he had 
ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, it was 
a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time, without 
putting one another out. While the fellow was lighting the 
upper candles, he cried out to Mrs. Miller, “Look, look, madam, 
the very picture of the man in the end of the common-prayer 
book before the gunpowder-treason service.” 

As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, 
began, Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till 
the entrance of the ghost; upon which he asked Jones what 
man that was in the strange dress; “something,” said he, “like 
what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it?” 

Jones answered, “That is the ghost.” 

To which Partridge replied with a smile, “Persuade me to 
that, sir, if you can. Though I can’t say I ever actually saw a 
ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one, if I saw 
him, better than that comes to. No, no, sir, ghosts don’t appear 
in such dresses as that, neither.” 

In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neigh- 
bourhood of Partridge, he was suffered to continue, till the 
scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that 
credit to Mr Garrick, which he had denied to Jones, and fell 
into so violent a trembling, that his knees knocked against each 

♦Meaning, perhaps, the bank-bill for £100. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


373 

other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he 
was afraid of the warrior upon the stage? 

“O la! sir,” said he, “I perceive now it is what you told me. 
I am not afraid of anything; for I know it is but a play. And 
if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a 
distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, 
I am not the only person.” 

“Why, who,” cries Jones, “dost thou take to be such a coward 
here besides thyself?” 

“Nay, you may call me coward if you will; but if that little 
man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any 
man frightened in my life. Ay, ay: go along with you: Ay, 
to be sure! Who’s fool then? Will you? Lud have mercy 
upon such fool-hardiness ! — Whatever happens, it is good enough 

for you. Follovc you? I’d follow the devil as soon. Nay, 

perhaps it is the devil for they say he can put on what like- 
ness he pleases. — Oh! here he is again. No farther! No, 

you have gone far enough already; farther than I’d have gone 
for all the king’s dominions.” Jones offered to speak, but Par- 
tridge cried “Hush, hush! dear sir, don’t you hear him?” And 
during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed 
partly on the ghost and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth 
open ; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet, 
succeeding likewise in him. 

When the scene was over Jones said, “Why, Partridge, you 
exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I con- 
ceived possible.” 

“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge, “if you are not afraid of 
the devil, I can’t help it; but to be sure, it is natural to be 
surprized at such things, though I know there is nothing in 
them : not that it was the ghost that surprized me, neither ; for 
I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange 
dress; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it 
was that which took hold of me.” 

“And dost thou imagine, then, Partridge,” cries Jones, “that 
he was really frightened?” 

“Nay, sir,” said Partridge, “did not you yourself observe 
afterwards, when he found it was his own father’s spirit, and 
how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him 
by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, 
just as I should have been, had it been my own case? — But 
hush! O la! what noise is that? There he is again. Well 


374 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I 
am glad 1 am not down yonder, where those men are.” Then 
turning his eyes again upon Hamlet, “Ay, you may draw your 
sword ; what signifies a sword against the power of the devil ?” 

During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. 
He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses; nor could he 
help observing upon the king’s countenance. 

“Well,” said he, “how people may be deceived by faces!, 
Nulla fides fronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, 
by looking in the king’s face, that he had ever committed a 
murder?” 

He then enquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended 
he should be surprized, gave him no other satisfaction, than, 
that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire. 

Partridge sat in a fearful expectation of this ; and now, when 
the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, “There, 
sir, now; what say you now? is he frightened now or no? As 
much frightened as you think me, and, to be sure, nobody can 
help some fears. I would not be in so bad a condition as what’s 
his name, squire Hamlet, is there, for all the world. Bless me! 
what’s become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought 
I saw him sink into the earth.” 

“Indeed, you saw right,” answered Jones. 

“Well, well,” cries Partridge, “I know it is only a play : and 
besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would 
not laugh so; for as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I 
believe, if the devil was here in person. — There, there — Ay, 
no wonder you are in such a passion, shake the vile wicked 
wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother, I would serve 
her so. To be sure all duty to a mother is forfeited by such 

wicked doings. Ay, go about your business, I hate the sight 

of you.” 

Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Hamlet 
introduces before the king. This he did not at first understand, 
till Jones explained it to him ; but he no sooner entered into 
the spirit of it, than he began to bless himself that he had never 
committed murder. Then turning to Mrs Miller, he asked her, 
if she did not imagine the king looked as if he was touched; 
“though he is,” said he, “a good actor, and doth all he can to 
hide it. Well, I would not have so much to answer for, as that 
wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


375 

sits upon. No wonder he run away; for your sake I’ll never 
trust an innocent face again.” 

The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Par- 
tridge, who expressed much surprize at the number of skulls 
thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, that it was 
one of the most famous burial-places about town. 

“No wonder then,” cries Partridge, “that the place is 
haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. 
I had a sexton, when I was clerk, that should have dug three 
graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade 
as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, 
ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe.” 
-—Upon Hamlet’s taking up the skull, he cried out, “Well! 
it is strange to see how fearless some men are : I never could 
bring myself to touch anything belonging to a dead man, on 
any account. — He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, 
I thought. Nemo omnibus horis sapit ** 

Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at 
the end of which Jones asked him, which of the players he had 
liked best? To this he answered, with some appearance of 
indignation at the question, “The king, without doubt.” 

“Indeed, Mr Partridge,” says Mrs Miller, “you are not of 
the same opinion with the town; for they are all agreed, that 
Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage.” 

“He the best player!” cries Partridge, with a contemptuous 
sneer, “why, I could act as well as he myself. I am sure, if I 
had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same man- 
ner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that 
scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you 
told me he acted so fine, why, Lord help me, any man, that 
is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done 
exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me; but 
indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in London, yet 
I have seen acting before in the country ; and the king for my 
money; he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again 
as the other. Anybody may see he is an actor.” 

While Mrs Miller was thus engaged in conversation with 
Partridge, a lady came up to Mr Jones, whom he immediately 
knew to be Mrs Fitzpatrick. She said, she had seen him from 
the other part of the gallery, and had taken that opportunity 
of speaking to him, as she had something to say, which might 
be of great service to himself. She then acquainted him with 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


376 

her lodgings, and made him an appointment the next day in 
the morning; which, upon recollection, she presently changed 
to the afternoon ; at which time Jones promised to attend her. 

Thus ended the adventure at the playhouse; where Partridge 
had afforded great mirth, not only to Jones and Mrs Miller, 
but to all who sat within hearing, who were more attentive 
to what he said, than to anything that passed on the stage. 

He durst not go to bed all that night, for fear of the ghost; 
and for many nights after sweated two or three hours before 
he w T ent to sleep, with the same apprehensions, and waked 
several times in great horrors, crying out, “Lord have mercy 
upon us! there it is.” 

Jones, however, was troubled by no such visions (if he 
dreamed of anyone, it was of Sophia), and at the appointed hour 
next day he attended on Mrs Fitzpatrick; but before we relate 
the conversation which now past it may be proper, according 
to our method, to return a little back, and to account for so 
great an alteration of behaviour in this lady, that from chang- 
ing her lodging principally to avoid Mr Jones, she had now 
industriously, as hath been seen, sought this interview. 

And here we shall need only to resort to what happened the 
preceding day, when, hearing from Lady Bellaston that Mr 
Western was arrived in town, she went to pay her duty to him, 
at his lodgings at Piccadilly, where she was received with many 
scurvy compellations too coarse to be repeated, and was even 
threatened to be kicked out of doors. From hence, an old 
servant of her aunt Western, with Whom she was well ac- 
quainted, conducted her to the lodgings of that lady, who treated 
her not more kindly, but more politely; or, to say the truth, 
with rudeness in another way. In short, she returned from 
both, plainly convinced, not only that her scheme of reconcilia- 
tion had proved abortive, but that she must for ever give over 
all thoughts of bringing it about by any means whatever. From 
this moment desire of revenge only filled her mind ; and in this 
temper meeting Jones at the play, an opportunity seemed to 
her to occur of effecting this purpose. 

Therefore, when Jones attended, after a previous declaration 
of her desire of serving him, arising, as she said, from a firm 
assurance how much she should by so doing oblige Sophia; and 
after some excuses for her former disappointment, and after 
acquainting Mr Jones in whose custody his mistress was, of 
which she thought him ignorant; she very explicitly mentioned 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


377 


her scheme to him, and advised him to make sham addresses to 
the older lady, in order to procure an easy access to the younger. 

Jones, however, persisted in declining the undertaking, which 
had not, indeed, the least probability of success. He easily per- 
ceived the motives which induced Mrs Fitzpatrick to be so eager 
in pressing her advice. He said he would not deny the tender 
and passionate regard he had for Sophia; but was so conscious 
of the inequality of their situations, that he could never flatter 
himself so far as to hope that so divine a young lady would con- 
descend to think on so unworthy a man ; nay, he protested, he 
could scarce bring himself to wish she should. He concluded 
with a profession of generous sentiments, which we have not 
at present leisure to insert. 

To some ladies a man often recommends himself while he 
is commending another woman; and, while he is expressing 
ardour and generous sentiments for his mistress, they are con- 
sidering what a charming lover this man would make to them, 
who can feel all this tenderness for an inferior degree of merit. 
Of this, strange as it may seem, I have seen many instances 
besides Mrs Fitzpatrick, to whom all this really happened, 
and who now began to feel somewhat for Mr Jones, the 
symptoms of which she much sooner understood than poor 
Sophia had formerly done. 

When Jones had finished his exclamations, many of which 
would have become the mouth of Oroondates himself, Mrs 
Fitzpatrick heaved a deep sigh, and, taking her eyes off from 
Jones, on whom they had been some time fixed, and dropping 
them on the ground, she cried, “Indeed, Mr Jones, I pity you; 
but it is the curse of such tenderness to be thrown away on 
those who are insensible of it.” 

“Sure, madam,” said Jones, “you can’t mean ■” 

“Mean!” cries Mrs Fitzpatrick, “I know not what I mean; 
there is something, I think, in true tenderness bewitching; few 
women ever meet with it in men, and fewer still know how to 
value it when they do. I never heard such truly noble senti- 
ments, and I can’t tell how it is, but you force one to believe 
you. Sure she must be the most contemptible of women who 
can overlook such merit.” 

The manner and look with which all this was spoke infused 
a suspicion into Jones which we don’t care to convey in direct 
words to the reader. Instead of making an answer, he said, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


378 

“I am afraid, madam, I have made too tiresome a visit;” and 
offered to take his leave. 

“Not at all, sir,” answered Mrs Fitzpatrick. “Indeed I 
pity you, Mr Jones; indeed I do: but if you are going, consider 
of the scheme I have mentioned — I am convinced you will ap- 
prove it — and let me see you again as soon as you can. To- 
morrow morning if you will, or at least some time to-morrow. 
I shall be at home all day.” 

Jones, then, after many expressions of thanks, very respect- 
fully retired; nor could Mrs Fitzpatrick forbear making him a 
present of a look at parting, by which if he had understood 
nothing, he must have had no understanding in the language of 
the eyes. In reality, it confirmed his resolution of returning 
to her no more; for, faulty as he hath hitherto appeared in 
this history, his whole thoughts were now so confined to his 
Sophia, that I believe no woman upon earth could have now 
drawn him into an act of inconstancy. 

Fortune, however, who was not his friend, resolved, as he in- 
tended to give her no second opportunity, to make the best of 
this; and accordingly produced the tragical incident which we 
are now in sorrowful notes to record. 

The husband of Mrs Fitzpatrick having received the letter 
before mentioned from Mrs Western, and being by that means 
acquainted with the place to which his wife was retired, re- 
turned directly to Bath, and thence the day after set forward 
to London. 

The reader hath been already often informed of the jealous 
temper of this gentleman. He may likewise be pleased to re- 
member the suspicion which he had conceived of Jones at Upton, 
upon his finding him in the room with Mrs Waters; and, 
though sufficient reasons had afterwards appeared entirely to 
clear up that suspicion, yet now the reading so handsome a 
character of Mr Jones from his wife, caused him to reflect 
that she likewise was in the inn at the same time, and jumbled 
together such a confusion of circumstances in a head which 
was naturally none of the clearest, that the whole produced that 
green-eyed monster mentioned by Shakespear in his tragedy of 
Othello. 

And now, as he was enquiring in the street after his wife, 
and had just received directions to the door, unfortunately Mr 
Jones was issuing from it. 

Fitzpatrick did not yet recollect the face of Jones; however, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


379 

seeing a young well-dressed fellow coming from his wife, he 
made directly up to him, and asked him what he had been doing 
in that house ? for I am sure, said he, “you must have been in 
it, as I saw you come out of it.” 

Jones answered very modestly, that he had been visiting a 
lady there. 

“What business have you with the lady?” Fitzpatrick de- 
manded. 

Upon which Jones, who now perfectly remembered the voice, 
features, and indeed coat, of the gentleman, cried out, “Ha, 
my good friend! give me your hand; I hope there is no ill 
blood remaining between us, upon a small mistake which hap- 
pened so long ago.” 

“Upon my soul, sir,” said Fitzpatrick, “I don’t know your 
name nor your face.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said Jones, “neither have I the pleasure of 
knowing your name, but your face I very well remember to 
have seen before at Upton, where a foolish quarrel happened 
between us, which, if it is not made up yet, we will now make 
up over a bottle.” 

“At Upton!” cried the other; “Ha! upon my soul, I believe 
your name is Jones?” 

“Indeed,” answered he, “it is.” 

“O ! upon my soul,” cries Fitzpatrick, “you are the very man 
I wanted to meet. Upon my soul I will drink a bottle with 
you presently; but first I will give you a great knock over the 
pate. There is for you, you rascal. Upon my soul, if you do 
not give me satisfaction for that blow, I will give you another.” 
And then, drawing his sword, put himself in a posture of de- 
fence, which was the only science he understood. 

Jones was a little staggered by the blow, wdiich came some- 
what unexpectedly; but presently recovering himself he also 
drew, and though he understood nothing of fencing, prest on 
so boldly upon Fitzpatrick, that he beat down his guard, and 
sheathed one half of his sword in the body of the said gentle- 
man, who had no sooner received it than he stept backwards, 
dropped the point of his sword, and leaning upon it, cried, “I 
have satisfaction enough: I am a dead man.” 

“I hope not,” cried Jones, “but whatever be the consequence, 
you must be sensible you have drawn it upon yourself.” At 
this instant a number of fellows rushed in and seized Jones, 
who told them he should make no resistance, and begged some 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


380 

of them at least would take care of the wounded gentleman. 

“Ay,” cried one of the fellows, “the wounded gentleman will 
be taken care enough of; for I suppose he hath not many hours 
to live. As for you, sir, you have a month at least good yet.” 

“D — n me, Jack,” said another, “he hath prevented his voy- 
age; he’s bound to another port now;” and many other such 
jests was our poor Jones made the subject of by these fellows, 
who were indeed the gang employed by Lord Fellamar, and had 
dogged him into the house of Mrs Fitzpatrick, waiting for 
him at the corner of the street when this unfortunate accident 
happened. 

The officer who commanded this gang very wisely concluded 
that his business was now to deliver his prisoner into the hands 
of the civil magistrate. He ordered him, therefore, to be carried 
to a public-house, where, having sent for a constable, he deliv- 
ered him to his custody. 

The constable, seeing Mr Jones very well drest, and hearing 
that the accident had happened in a duel, treated his prisoner 
with great civility, and at his request dispatched a messenger to 
enquire after the wounded gentleman, who was now at a tavern 
under the surgeon’s hands. The report brought back was, that 
the wound was certainly mortal, and there were no hopes of life. 
Upon which the constable informed Jones that he must go be- 
fore a justice. 

“Wherever you please,” he answered; “I am indifferent as to 
what happens to me; for though I am convinced I am not 
guilty of murder in the eye of the law, yet the weight of blood 
I find intolerable upon my mind.” 

Jones was now conducted before the justice, where the sur- 
geon who dressed Mr Fitzpatrick appeared, and deposed that 
he believed the wound to be mortal ; upon which the prisoner 
was committed to the Gatehouse. It was very late at night, 
so that Jones could not send for Partridge till the next morn- 
ing; and, as he never shut his eyes till seven, so it was near 
twelve before the poor fellow, who was greatly frightened at 
not hearing from his master so long, received a message which 
almost deprived him of being when he heard it. 

He went to the Gatehouse with trembling knees and a beat- 
ing heart, and was no sooner arrived in the presence of Jones 
than he lamented the misfortune that had befallen him with 
many tears, looking all the while frequently about him in great 
terror, for as the news now arrived that Mx Fitzpatrick wa§ 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


381 

dead, the poor fellow apprehended every minute that his ghost 
would enter the room. At last he delivered him a letter, which 
he had like to have forgot, and which came from Sophia by the 
hands of Black George. 

Jones presently dispatched every one out of the room, and, 
having eagerly broke open the letter, read as follows: — 

“You owe the hearing from me again to an accident which I 
own surprizes me. My aunt hath just now shown me a letter 
from you to Lady Bellaston, which contains a proposal of mar- 
riage. I am convinced it is your own hand; and what more 
surprizes me is, that it is dated at the very time when you would 
have me imagine you was under such concern on my account. — 
I leave you to comment on this fact. All I desire is, that your 
name may never more be mentioned to 

“S. W ” 

Of the present situation of Mr Jones’s mind, and of the pangs 
with which he was now tormented, we cannot give the reader 
a better idea than by saying, his misery was such that even 
Thwackum would almost have pitied him. But, bad as it is, 
we shall at present l£ave him in it, as his good genius (if he 
really had any) seems to have done. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

The generous and grateful behaviour of Mrs Miller. 

ALLWORTHY and Mrs Miller were just sat down 
to breakfast, when Blifil, who had gone out very early 
that morning, returned to make one of the company. 

He had not been long seated before he began as follows: 
“Good Lord ! my dear uncle, what do you think hath happened ? 
I vow I am afraid of telling it you, for fear of shocking you with 
the rememberance of ever having shewn any kindness to such a 
villain.” 

“What is the matter, child?” said the uncle. “I fear I have 
shewn kindness in my life to the unworthy more than once. 
But charity doth not adopt the vices of its objects.” 

“O, sir!” returned Blifil, “it is not without the secret direc- 
tion of Providence that you mention the word adoption. Your 
adopted son, sir, that Jones, that wretch whom you nourished 
in your bosom, hath proved one of the greatest villains upon 
earth.” 

“By all that’s sacred ’tis false,” cries Mrs Miller. “Mr 
Jones is no villain. He is one of the worthiest creatures breath- 
ing; and if any other person had called him villain, I would 
have thrown all this boiling water in his face.” Mr Allworthy 
looked very much amazed at this behaviour. But she did not 
give him leave to speak, before, turning to him, she cried, “I 
hope you will not be angry with me ; I would not offend you, 
sir, for the world; but, indeed, I could not bear to hear him 
called so.” 

“I must own, madam,” said Allworthy, very gravely, “I am 
a little surprized to hear you so warmly defend a fellow you 
do not know.” 

“O ! I do know him, Mr Allworthy,” said she, “indeed I do ; 
I should be the most ungrateful of all wretches if I denied it. 
He hath been the preserver of me and mine. Believe me, sir, 
he hath been abused, grossly abused to you. He never mentions 
your name but with a sort of adoration. In this very room 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


38 3 

I have seen him on his knees, imploring all the blessings of 
heaven upon your head. I do not love that child there better 
than he loves you. I do not pretend to say that the young man 
is without faults; but they are all the faults of wildness and 
of youth ; faults which he may, nay, which I am certain he will, 
relinquish, and, if he should not, they are vastly overbalanced 
by one of the most humane, tender, honest hearts that ever man 
was blest with.” 

“Indeed, Mrs Miller,” said Allworthy, “had this been re- 
lated of you, I should not have believed it.” 

“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “you will believe everything I 
have said, I am sure you will: and when you have heard the 
story which I shall tell you (for I will tell you all), you will 
be so far from being offended, that you will own ( I know your 
justice so well), that I must have been the most despicable 
and most ungrateful of wretches if I had acted any other part 
than I have.” 

“Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “I shall be very glad to hear 
any good excuse for a behaviour which, I must confess, I think 
wants an excuse. And now, madam, will you be pleased to let 
my nephew proceed in his story without interruption. He would 
not have introduced a matter of slight consequence with such a 
preface. Perhaps even this story will cure you of your mistake. 
What hath he done of late?” 

“What,” cries Blifil, “notwithstanding all Mrs Miller hath 
said, I am very sorry to relate, and what you should never have 
heard from me, had it not been a matter impossible to conceal 
from the whole world. In short he hath killed a man ; I will 
not say murdered — for perhaps it may not be so construed in 
law, and I hope the best for his sake.” 

Allworthy looked shocked, and blessed himself; and then, 
turning to Mrs Miller, he cried, “Well, madam, what say you 
now r 

“Why, I say, sir,” answered she, “that I never was more 
concerned at anything in my life; but, if the fact be true, I am 
convinced the man, whoever he is, was in fault. Heaven knows 
there are many villains in this town who make it their business 
to provoke young gentlemen. Nothing but the greatest provo- 
cation could have tempted him; for of all the gentlemen I ever 
had in my house, I never saw one so gentle or so sweet-tem- 
pered. He was beloved by every one in the house, and every one 
who came near it.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


384 

While she was thus running on, a violent knocking at the 
door interrupted their conversation, and prevented her from 
proceeding further, or from receiving an answer; for, as she 
concluded this was a visitor to Mr All worthy, she hastily re- 
tired. 

Mrs Miller had not long left the room when Mr Western 
entered ; but not before a small wrangling bout had passed be- 
tween him and his chairmen. 

“D — n me,” says he, “if I won’t walk in the rain rather than 
get into one of their hand-barrows again. They have jolted 
me more in a mile than Brown Bess would in a long fox-chase.” 

When his wrath on this occasion was a little appeased, he 
resumed the same passionate tone on another. 

“There,” says he, “there is a fine business forwards now. 
The hounds have changed at last; and when we imagined we 
had a fox to deal with, od-rat it, it turns out to be a badger at 
last!” 

“Pray, my good neighbour,” said Allworthy, “drop your 
metaphors, and speak a little plainer.” 

“Why, then,” says the squire, “to tell you plainly, we have 
been all this time afraid of a son of a whore of a bastard of 
somebody’s, I don’t know whose, not I. And now here’s a con- 
founded son of a whore of a lord, who may be a bastard too for 
what I know or care, for he shall never have a daughter of 
mine by my consent. They have beggared the nation, but they 
shall never beggar me. My land shall never be sent over to 
Hanover.” 

“You surprize me much, my good friend,” said Allworthy. 

“Why, zounds! I am surprized myself,” answered the squire. 
“I went to zee sister Western last night, according to her own 
appointment, and there I was led into a whole room full of 
women. There was my lady cousin Bellaston, and my Lady 
Betty, and my Lady Catherine, and my lady I don’t know who ; 
d — n me, if ever you catch me among such a kennel of hoop- 
petticoat b — s! D — n me, I’d rather be run by my own dogs, 
as one Acton was, that the story-book says was turned into a 
hare, and his own dogs killed un and eat un. Od-rabbit it, no 
mortal was ever run in such a manner; if I dodged one way, 
one had me; if I offered to clap back, another snapped me. ‘O! 
certainly one of the greatest matches in England,’ says one 
cousin (here he attempted to mimic them) ; ‘A very advan- 
tageous offer indeed,’ cries another cousin (for you must know 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


38.5 

they be all my cousins, thof I never zeed half o’ um before). 
‘Surely,’ says my Lady Bellaston, ‘cousin, you must be out of 
your wits to think of refusing such an offer.’ ” 

Now I begin to understand,” says Allworthy; “some person 
hath made proposals to Miss Western, which the ladies of the 
family approve, but is not to your liking.” 

“My liking!” said Western, “how the devil should it? I 
tell you it is a lord, and those are always volks whom you 
know I always resolved to have nothing to do with. Did unt 
I refuse a matter of vorty years’ purchase now for a bit of land, 
which one o’ um had a mind to put into a park, only because I 
would have no dealings with lords, and dost think I would 
marry my daughter zu? Besides, ben’t I engaged to you, and 
did I ever go off any bargain when I had promised ?” 

“As to that point, neighbour,” said Allworthy, “I entirely 
release you from any engagement. No contract can be binding 
between parties who have not a full power to make it at the 
time, nor ever afterwards acquire the power of fulfilling it.” 

“Slud! then,” answered Western, “I tell you I have power, 
and I will fulfil it. . Come along with me directly to Doctors’ 
Commons, I will get a licence; and I will go to sister and take 
away the wench by force, and she shall ha un, or I will lock 
her up, and keep her upon bread and water as long as she lives.” 

“Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “shall I beg you will hear 
my full sentiments on this matter?” 

“Hear thee; ay, to be sure I will,” answered he. 

“Why, then, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I can truly say, without 
a compliment either to you or the young lady, that when this 
match was proposed, I embraced it very readily and heartily, 
from my regard to you both. An alliance between two families 
so nearly neighbours, and between whom there had always ex- 
isted so mutual an intercourse and good harmony, I thought 
a most desirable event; and with regard to the young lady, not 
only the concurrent opinion of all who knew her, but my own 
observation assured me that she would be an inestimable treas- 
ure to a good husband. I shall say nothing of her personal 
qualifications, which certainly are admirable; her good nature, 
her charitable disposition, her modesty, are too well known to 
need any panegyric.” 

Here Blifil sighed bitterly; upon which Western, whose eyes 
were full of tears at the praise of Sophia, blubbered out, “Don’t 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


386 

be chicken-hearted, for shat ha her, d — n me, shat ha her, if 
she was twenty times as good.” 

“Remember your promise, sir,” cried Allworthy, “I was not 
to be interrupted.” 

“Well, shat unt,” answered the squire; “I won’t speak an- 
other word.” 

“Now, my good friend,” continued Allworthy, “I have dwelt 
on the merit of this young lady, partly as I really am in love 
with her character, and partly that fortune (for the match in 
that light is really advantageous on my nephew’s side) might 
not be imagined to be my principal view in having so eagerly 
embraced the proposal. Indeed, I heartily wished to receive 
so great a jewel into my family; but though I may wish for 
many good things, I would not, therefore, steal them, or be 
guilty of any violence or injustice to possess myself of them. 
Now to force a woman into a marriage contrary to her consent 
or approbation, is an act of such injustice and oppression, that 
I wish the laws of our country could restrain it. I must speak 
very plainly here. I think parents who act in this manner are 
accessories to all the guilt which their children afterwards incur, 
and of course must, before a just judge, expect to partake of 
their punishment; but if they could avoid this, good heaven! is 
there a soul who can bear the thought of having contributed to 
the damnation of his child ? 

“For these reasons, my best neighbour, as I see the inclina- 
tions of this young lady are most unhappily averse to my 
nephew, I must decline any further thoughts of the honour you 
intended him, though I assure you I shall always retain the 
most grateful sense of it.” 

“Well, sir,” said Western (the froth bursting forth from 
his lips the moment they were uncorked), “you cannot say but 
I have heard you out, and now I expect you’ll hear me; and 
if I don’t answer every word on’t, why then I’ll consent to gee 
the matter up. First then, I desire you to answer me one ques- 
tion — Did not I beget her? did not I beget her? answer me 
that. They say, indeed, it is a wise father that knows his own 
child ; but I am sure I have the best title to her, for I bred her 
up. But I believe you will allow me to be her father, and if 
I be, am I not to govern my own child? I ask you that, am I 
not to govern my own child ? and if I am to govern her in other 
matters, surely I am to govern her in this, which concerns her 
most. And what am I desiring all this while? Am I desiring 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


387 

her to do anything for me? to give me anything? — Zu much 
on t’other side, that I am only desiring her to take away half 
my estate now, and t’other half when I die. Well, and what 
is it all vor? Why, is unt it to make her happy? It’s enough 
to make one mad to hear volks talk; if I was going to marry 
myself, then she would ha reason to cry and to blubber ; but, on 
the contrary, han’t I offered to bind down my land in such a 
manner, that I could not marry if I would, seeing as narro’ 
woman upon earth would ha me. What the devil in hell can 
I do more? I contribute to her damnation! — Zounds! I’d zee 
all the world d — n’d bevore her little vinger should be hurt. 
Indeed, Mr Allworthy, you must excuse me, but I am surprized 
to hear you talk in zuch a manner, and I must say, take it 
how you will, that I thought you had more sense.” 

Blifil now desired to be permitted to speak a few words. “As 
to using any violence on the young lady, I am sure I shall never 
consent to it. My conscience will not permit me to use violence 
on any one, much less on a lady for whom, however cruel she is 
to me, I shall always preserve the purest and sincerest affection ; 
but yet I have read that women are seldom proof against per- 
severance. Why may I not hope then by such perseverance at 
last to gain those inclinations, in which for the future I shall, 
perhaps, have no rival; for as for this lord, Mr Western is so 
kind to prefer me to him; and sure, sir, you will not deny but 
that a parent hath at least a negative voice in these matters ; nay, 
I have heard this very young lady herself say so more than once, 
and declare that she thought children inexcusable who married 
in direct opposition to the will of their parents. Besides, though 
the other ladies of the family seem to favour the pretensions of 
my lord, I do not find the lady herself is inclined to give him 
any countenance; alas! I am too well assured she is not; I am 
too sensible that wickedest of men remains uppermost in her 
heart.” 

“Ay, ay, so he does,” cries Western. 

“But > surely,” says Blifil, “when she hears of this murder 
which he hath committed, if the law should spare his life ” 

“What’s that?” cries Western. “Murder! hath he com- 
mitted murder, and is there any hopes of seeing him hanged ? — 
Tol de rol, tol lol de rol.” Here he fell a singing and capering 
about the room. 

“Child,” says Allworthy, “this unhappy passion of yours 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


388 

distresses me beyond measure. I heartily pity you, and would 
do every fair thing to promote your success.” 

“I desire no more,” cries Bliftl; “I am convinced my dear 
uncle hath a better opinion of me than to think that I myself 
would accept of more.” 

“Lookee,” says Allworthy, “you have my leave to write, to 
visit, if she will permit it — but I insist on no thoughts of vio- 
lence. I will have no confinement, nothing of that kind 
attempted.” 

“Well, well,” cries the squire, “nothing of that kind shall be 
attempted; we will try a little longer what fair means will 
effect; and if this fellow be but hanged out of the way — Tol 
lol de rol! I never heard better news in my life — I warrant 
everything goes to my mind. — Do, prithee, dear Allworthy, 
come and dine with me at the Hercules Pillars: I have bespoke 
a shoulder of mutton roasted, and a spare-rib of pork, and a 
fowl and egg-sauce. There will be nobody but ourselves, unless 
we have a mind to have the landlord; for I have sent Parson 
Supple down to Basingstoke after my tobacco-box, which I left 
at an inn there, and I would not lose it for the world ; for it is 
an old acquaintance of above twenty years’ standing. I can tell 
you landlord is a vast comical bitch, you will like un hugely.” 

Mr Allworthy at last agreed to this invitation, and soon after 
the squire went off, singing and capering at the hopes of seeing 
the speedy tragical end of poor Jones. 

Mr Allworthy and his nephew started soon after to keep their 
appointment with Mr Western; and Mrs Miller set forward 
to her son-in-law’s lodgings. She found that he had already 
been acquainted by Partridge with the bad news concerning 
Jones, and had hurried to the Gatehouse, whither she at once 
followed him. 

While Jones was expressing great satisfaction in the presence 
of his friends, Partridge brought an account that Mr Fitz- 
patrick was still alive, though the surgeon declared that he had 
very little hopes. Upon which Jones fetched a deep sigh. 

“Come, come, Mr Jones,” says Mrs Miller, “chear yourself 
up. I knew you could not be the aggressor, and so I told Mr 
Allworthy, and so he shall acknowledge too, before I have done 
with him.” 

Jones gravely answered, that whatever might be his fate, he 
should always lament the having shed the blood of one of his 
fellow-creatures, as one of the highest misfortunes which could 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


389 

have befallen him. “But I have another misfortune 'of the ten- 
derest kind,” said he. “O ! Mrs Miller, I have lost what I held 
most dear upon earth.” 

“That must be a mistress,” said Mrs Miller; “but come, 
come; I know more than you imagine” (for indeed Partridge 
had blabbed all) ; “and I have heard more than you know. 
Matters go better, I promise you, than you think; and I would 
not give Blifil sixpence for all the chance which he hath of 
the lady.” 

“Indeed, my dear friend, indeed,” answered Jones, “you are 
an entire stranger to the cause of my grief. If you was ac- 
quainted with the story, you would allow my case admitted of 
no comfort. I apprehend no danger from Blifil. I have undone 
myself.” 

“Don’t despair,” replied Mrs Miller; “you know not what 
a woman can do ; and if anything be in my power, I promise 
you I will do it to serve you. Shall I go to the lady myself? 
I will say anything to her you would have me say.” 

“Thou best of women,” cries Jones, taking her by the hand, 
“there is a favour which, perhaps, may be in your power. I see 
you are acquainted with the lady (how you came by your in- 
formation I know not), who sits, indeed, very near my heart. 
If you could contrive to deliver this (giving her a paper from 
his pocket), I shall for ever acknowledge your goodness.” 

“Give it me,” said Mrs Miller. “If I see it not in her own 
possession before I sleep, may my next sleep be my last!” and 
the good creature hastened away at once to execute this com- 
mission. 

Access to the young lady was by no means difficult; for, as 
she lived now on a perfect friendly footing with her aunt, she 
was at full liberty to receive what visitants she pleased. 

Sophia was dressing when she was acquainted that there was 
a gentlewoman below to wait on her. As she was neither afraid, 
nor ashamed, to see any of her own sex, Mrs Miller was imme- 
diately admitted. 

Curtsies and the usual ceremonials between women who are 
strangers to each other, being past, Sophia said, “I have not the 
pleasure to know you, madam.” 

“No, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, “and I must beg pardon 
for intruding upon you. But when you know what has induced 
me to give you this trouble, I hope ” 


390 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Pray, what is your business, madam?” said Sophia, with a 
little emotion. 

“Madam, wj? are not alone,” replied Mrs Miller, in a low 
voice. 

“Go out, Betty,” said Sophia. 

When Betty was departed, Mrs Miller said, “I was desired, 
madam, by a very unhappy young gentleman, to deliver you this 
ietter.” . 

Sophia changed colour when she saw the direction, well 
knowing the hand, and after some hesitation, said — “I could 
not conceive, madam, from your appearance, that your business 
had been of such a nature. — Whomever you brought this letter 
from, I shall not open it. I should be sorry to entertain an 
unjust suspicion of any one; but you are an utter stranger to 
me.” 

“If you will have patience, madam,” answered Mrs Miller, 
“I will acquaint you who I am, and how I came by that letter.” 

“I have no curiosity, madam, to know anything,” cries Sophia; 
“but I must insist on your delivering that letter back to the 
person who gave it you.” 

Mrs Miller then fell upon her knees, and in the most pas- 
sionate terms implored her compassion; to which Sophia an- 
swered : “Sure, madam, it is surprizing you should be so very 
strongly interested in the behalf of this person. I would not 
think, madam ” 

“No, madam,” says Mrs Miller, “you shall not think any- 
thing but the truth. I will tell you all, and you will not wonder 
that I am interested. He is the best-natured creature that ever 
was born. He hath preserved my child.” Here, after shed- 

ding some tears, she related everything concerning that fact, 
suppressing only those circumstances which would have most 
reflected on her daughter. 

The alterations in the countenance of Sophia had hitherto 
been chiefly to her disadvantage, and had inclined her com- 
plexion to too great paleness; but she now waxed redder, if 
possible, than vermilion, and cried, “I know not what to say; 

certainly what arises from gratitude cannot be blamed But 

what service can my reading this letter do your friend, since I 
am resolved never ” 

Mrs Miller fell again to her entreaties, and begged to be 
forgiven, but she could not, she said, carry it back. 

“Well, madam,” says Sophia, “I cannot help it, if you will 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 391 

force it upon me. — Certainly you may leave it whether I will or 
no.” 

What Sophia meant, or whether she meant anything, I will 
not presume to determine; but Mrs Miller actually understood 
this as a hint, and presently laying the letter down on the table, 
took her leave, having first begged permission to wait again on 
Sophia; which request had neither assent nor denial. 

The letter lay upon the table no longer than till Mrs Miller 
was out of sight ; for then Sophia opened and read it. 

This letter did very little service to his cause ; for it consisted 
of little more than confessions of his own unworthiness, and 
bitter lamentations of despair, together with the most solemn 
protestations of his unalterable fidelity to Sophia, of which, he 
said, he hoped to convince her, if he had ever more the honour 
of being admitted to her presence; and that he could account 
for the letter to Lady Bellaston in such a manner, that, though 
it would not entitle him to her forgiveness, he hoped at least to 
obtain it from her mercy. And concluded with vowing that 
nothing was ever less in his thoughts than to marry Lady 
Bellaston. 

Though Sophia read the letter twice over with great atten- 
tion, his meaning still remained a riddle to her; nor could her 
invention suggest to her any means to excuse Jones. She cer- 
tainly remained very angry with him, though indeed Lady Bell- 
aston took up so much of her resentment, that her gentle mind 
had but little left to bestow on any other person. 

As for Mrs Miller, she went directly home and awaited Mr 
Allworthy. Upon his return from dinner she acquainted him 
with Jones’s having unfortunately lost all which he was pleased 
to bestow on him at their separation ; and with the distresses to 
which that loss had subjected him; of all which she had received 
a full account from the faithful retailer Partridge. She then ex- 
plained the obligations she had to Jones. 

Allworthy said, there were few characters so absolutely 
vicious as not to have the least mixture of good in them, but 
here their conversation was put an end to by the arrival of 
Blifil and another person, which other person was no less than 
Mr Dowling, the attorney, who was now become a great 
favourite with Mr Blifil, and whom Mr Allworthy, at the 
desire of his nephew, had made his steward. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

An extraordinary scene between Sophia and her aunt . 

^HE lowing heifer and the bleating ewe, in herds and flocks, 
may ramble safe and unguarded through the pastures. These 
are indeed hereafter doomed to be the prey of man ; yet many 
years are they suffered to enjoy their liberty undisturbed. But 
if a plump doe be discovered to have escaped from the forest, 
and to repose herself in some field or grove, the whole parish is 
presently alarmed, every man is ready to set his dogs after her; 
and, if she is preserved from the rest by the good squire, it is 
only that he may secure her for his own eating. 

I have often considered a very fine young woman of fortune 
and fashion, when first found strayed from the pale of her 
nursery, to be in pretty much the same situation with this doe. 
The town is immediately in an uproar; she is hunted from 
park to play, from court to assembly, from assembly to her own 
chamber, and rarely escapes a single season from the jaws of 
some devourer or other; for, if her friends protect her from 
some, it is only to deliver her over to one of their own chusing, 
often more disagreeable to her than any of the rest ; while whole 
herds or flocks of other women securely, and scarce regarded, 
traverse the park, the play, the opera, and the assembly; and 
though, for the most part at least, they are at last devoured, yet 
for a long time do they wanton in liberty, without disturbance 
or control. 

Of all these paragons none ever tasted more of this persecu- 
tion than poor Sophia. Her ill stars were not contented with 
all that she had suffered on account of Blifil, they now raised 
her another pursuer, who seemed likely to torment her no less 
than the other had done. For though her aunt was less violent, 
she was no less assiduous in teazing her, than her father had been 
before. 

The servants were no sooner departed after dinner than Mrs 
Western, who had opened the matter to Sophia, informed her, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


393 

that she expected his lordship that very afternoon, and intended 
to take the first opportunity of leaving her alone with him. 

“If you do, madam,” answered Sophia, with some spirit, “I 
shall take the first opportunity of leaving him by himself.” 

“How! madam!” cries the aunt; “is this the return you make 
me for my kindness in relieving you from your confinement at 
your father’s?” 

“You know, madam,” said Sophia, “the cause of that confine- 
ment was a refusal to comply with my father in accepting a 
man I detested ; and will my dear aunt, who hath relieved me 
from that distress, involve me in another equally bad ?” 

“And do you think then, madam,” answered Mrs Western, 
“that there is no difference between my Lord Fellamar and Mr 

Blifil?” 

“Very little, in my opinion,” cries Sophia; “and, if I must be 
condemned to one, I would certainly have the merit of sacrificing 
myself to my father’s pleasure.” 

“Then my pleasure, I find,” said the aunt, “hath very little 
weight with you; but that consideration shall not move me. I 
act from nobler motives. The view of aggrandizing my family, 
of ennobling yourself, is what I proceed upon. Have you no 
sense of ambition? Are there no charms in the thoughts of 
having a coronet on your coach?” 

“None, upon my honour,” said Sophia. “A pincushion upon 
my coach would please me just as well.” 

“Never mention honour,” cries the aunt. “It becomes not 
the mouth of such a wretch. I am sorry, niece, you force me to 
use these words, but I cannot bear your groveling temper; you 
have none of the blood of the Westerns in you. But, however 
mean and base your own ideas are, you shall bring no imputa- 
tion on mine. I will never suffer the world to say of me that I 
encouraged you in refusing one of the best matches in England ; 
a match which, besides its advantage in . fortune, would do 
honour to almost any family, and hath, indeed, in title, the 
advantage of ours.” 

“Surely,” says Sophia, “I am born deficient, and have not the 
senses with which other people are blessed ; there must be cer- 
tainly some sense which can relish the delights of sound and 
show, which I have not; for surely mankind would not labour 
so much, nor sacrifice so much for the obtaining, nor would they 
be so elate and proud with possessing, what appeared to them, 
as it doth to me, the most insignificant of all trifles.” 


394 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


“No, no, miss,” cries the aunt; “you are born with as many 
senses as other people ; but I assure you you are not born with a 
sufficient understanding to make a fool of me, or to expose my 
conduct to the world; so I declare this to you, upon my word, 
and you know, I believe, how fixed my resolutions are, unless 
you agree to see his lordship this afternoon, I will, with my own 
hands, deliver you to-morrow morning to my brother, and will 
never henceforth interfere with you, nor see your face again.” 

Sophia stood a few moments silent after this speech, which 
was uttered in a most angry and peremptory tone; and then, 
bursting into tears, she cried, “Do with me, madam, whatever 
you please ; I am the most miserable undone wretch upon earth ; 
if my dear aunt forsakes me where shall I look for a protector?” 

“My dear niece,” cries she, “you will have a very good pro- 
tector in his lordship ; a protector whom nothing but a hankering 
after that vile fellow Jones can make you decline.” 

“Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “you wrong me. How can 
you imagine, after what you have shewn me, if I had ever any 
such thoughts, that I should not banish them for ever? If it 
will satisfy you, I will receive the sacrament upon it never to 
see his face again.” 

“But, child, dear child,” said the aunt, “be reasonable; can 
you invent a single objection?” 

“I have already, I think, told you a sufficient objection,” an- 
swered Sophia. 

“What?” cries the aunt; “I remember none.” 

“Sure, madam,” said Sophia, “I told you he had used me in 
the rudest and vilest manner.” 

“Indeed, child,” answered she, “I never heard you, or did 
not understand you : — but what do you mean by this rude, vile 
manner?” 

“Indeed, madam,” said Sophia, “I am almost ashamed to tell 
you. He caught me in his arms, pulled me down upon the 
settee, and thrust his hand into my bosom, and kissed it with 
such violence that I have the mark upon my left breast at this 
moment.” 

“Indeed!” said Mrs Western. 

“Yes, indeed, madam,” answered Sophia; “my father luckily 
came in at that instant, or Heaven knows what rudeness he 
intended to have proceeded to.” 

“I am astonished and confounded,” cries the aunt. “No 
woman of the name of Western hath been ever treated so since 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


395 


we were a family. I would have torn the eyes of a prince out, 
if he had attempted such freedoms with me. It is impossible! 
sure, Sophia, you must invent this to raise my indignation 
against him.” 

“I hope, madam,” said Sophia, “you have too good an opinion 
of me to imagine me capable of telling an untruth. Upon my 
soul it is true.” 

“I should have stabbed him to the heart, had I been present,” 
returned the aunt. “Yet surely he could have no dishonourable 
design ; it is impossible ! he durst not : besides, his proposals shew 
he hath not; for they are not only honourable, but generous. 
I don’t know; the age allows too great freedoms. A distant 
salute is all I would have allowed before the ceremony. I have 
had lovers formerly, not so long ago neither; several lovers, 
though I never would consent to marriage, and I never en- 
couraged the least freedom. It is a foolish custom, and what I 
never would agree to. No man kissed more of me than my 
cheek. It is as much as one can bring oneself to give lips up to 
a husband ; and, indeed, could I ever have been persuaded to 
marry, I believe I should not have soon been brought to endure 
so much.” 

“You will pardon me, dear madam,” said Sophia, “if I make 
one observation: you own you have had many lovers, and the 
world knows it, even if you should deny it. You refused them 
all, and, I am convinced, one coronet at least among them.” 

“You say true, dear Sophy,” answered she; “I had once the 
offer of a title.” 

“Why, then,” said Sophia, “will you not suffer me to refuse 
this once?” 

“It is true, child,” said she, “I have refused the offer of a 
title ; but it was not so good an offer ; that is, not so very, very 
good an offer.” 

“Yes, madam,” said Sophia; “but you have had very great 
proposals from men of vast fortunes. It was not the first, nor 
the second, nor the third advantageous match that offered itself.” 

“I own it was not,” said she. 

“Well, madam,” continued Sophia, “and why may not I 
expect to have a second, perhaps, better than this? You are 
now but a young woman, and I am convinced would not promise 
to yield to the first lover of fortune, nay, or of title too. I am a 
very young woman, and sure I need not despair. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


396 

“Well, my dear, dear Sophy,” cries the aunt, “what would 
you have me say?” 

“Why, I only beg that I may not be left alone, at least this 
evening; grant me that, and I will submit, if you think, after 
what is past, I ought to see him in your company.” 

“Well, I will grant it,” cries the aunt. “Sophy, you know 
I love you, and can deny you nothing. You know the easiness 
of my nature ; I have not always been so easy. I have been 
formerly thought cruel; by the men, I mean. I was called the 
cruel Parthenissa. I have broke many a window that has had 
verses to the cruel Parthenissa in it. Sophy, I was never so 
handsome as you, and yet I had something of you formerly. I 
am a little altered. Kingdoms and states, as Tully Cicero says 
in his epistles, undergo alterations, and so must the human 
form.” 

Thus run she on for near half an hour upon herself, and her 
conquests, and her cruelty, till the arrival of my lord, who, 
after a most tedious visit, during which Mrs Western never 
once offered to leave the room, retired, not much more satisfied 
with the aunt than with the niece ; for Sophia had brought her 
aunt into so excellent a temper, that she consented to almost 
everything her niece said; and agreed that a little distant be- 
haviour might not be improper to so forward a lover. 

Thus Sophia, by a little well-directed flattery, for which 
surely none will blame her, obtained a little ease for herself, and, 
at least, put off the evil day. But not for long, for Mrs West- 
ern’s zeal for the match with Lord Fellamar was not in the 
least abated, and the very next day was, at his lordship’s request, 
appointed for a private interview between the young parties. 
This was communicated to Sophia by her aunt, and insisted upon 
in such high terms, that, after having urged everything she 
possibly could invent against it without the least effect, she at 
last agreed to give the highest instance of complacence which 
any young lady can give, and consented to see his lordship. 

As conversations of this kind afford no great entertainment, 
we shall be excused from reciting the whole that past at this 
interview; in which, after his lordship had made many declara- 
tions of the most pure and ardent passion to the silent blushing 
Sophia, she at last collected all the spirits she could raise, and 
with a trembling low voice said, “My lord, you must be your- 
self conscious whether your former behaviour to me hath been 
consistent with the professions you now make*” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


397 


“Is there,” answered he, “no way by which I can atone for 
madness? what I did I am afraid must have too plainly con- 
vinced you, that the violence of love had deprived me of my 
senses.” 

“Indeed, my lord,” said she, “it is in your power to give me 
a proof of an affection which I much rather wish to encourage, 
and to which I should think myself more beholden.” 

“Name it, madam,” said my lord, very warmly. 

“My lord,” says she, looking down upon her fan, “I know 
you must be sensible how uneasy this pretended passion of yours 
hath made me.” 

“Can you be so cruel to call it pretended?” says he. 

“Yes, my lord,” answered Sophia, “all professions of love to 
those whom we persecute are most insulting pretences. This 
pursuit of yours is to me a most cruel persecution: nay, it is 
taking a most ungenerous advantage of my unhappy situation.” 

“Most lovely, most adorable charmer, do not accuse me,” 
cries he, “of taking an ungenerous advantage, while I have no 
thoughts but what are directed to your honour and interest, and 
while I have no view, no hope, no ambition, but to throw myself, 
honour, fortune, everything at your feet.” 

“My lord,” says she, “it is that fortune and those honours 
which gave you the advantage of which I complain. These are 
the charms which have seduced my relations, but to me they are 
things indifferent. If your lordship will merit my gratitude, 
there is but one way.” 

“Pardon me, divine creature,” said he, “there can be none. 
All I can do for you is so much your due, and will give me so 
much pleasure, that there is no room for your gratitude.” 

“Indeed, my lord,” answered she, “you may obtain my grati- 
tude, my good opinion, every kind thought and wish which it is 
in my power to bestow; nay, you may obtain them with ease, 
for sure to a generous mind it must be easy to grant my request. 
Let me beseech you, then, to cease a pursuit in which you can 
never have any success. For your own sake as well as mine I 
entreat this favour; for sure you are too noble to have any 
pleasure in tormenting an unhappy creature. What can your 
lordship propose but uneasiness to yourself by a perseverance, 
which, upon my honour, upon my soul, cannot, shall not prevail 
with me, whatever distresses you may drive me to.” 

Here my lord fetched a deep sigh, and then said — “Is it then, 
madam, that I am so unhappy to be the object of your dislike 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


398 

and scorn; or will you pardon me if I suspect there is some 
other?” 

Here he hesitated, and Sophia answered with some spirit, 
“My lord, I shall not be accountable to you for the reasons of 
my conduct. I am obliged to your lordship for the generous 
offer you have made; I own it is beyond either my deserts or 
expectations; yet I hope, my lord, you will not insist on my 
reasons, when I declare I cannot accept it.” 

Lord Fellamar returned much to this, which we do not per- 
fectly understand, and perhaps it could not all be strictly 
reconciled either to sense or grammar; but he concluded his 
ranting speech with saying, that if she had pre-engaged herself 
to any gentleman, however unhappy it would make him, he 
should think himself bound in honour to desist. Perhaps my 
lord laid too much emphasis on the word gentleman; for we 
cannot else well account for the indignation with which he in- 
spired Sophia, who, in her answer, seemed greatly to resent 
some affront he had given her. 

While she was speaking, with her voice more raised than 
usual, Mrs Western came into the room, the fire glaring in her 
cheeks, and the flames bursting from her eyes. 

“I am ashamed,” says she, “my lord, of the reception which 
you have met with. I assure your lordship we are all sensible 
of the honour done us; and I must tell you, Miss Western, the 
family expect a different behaviour from you.” 

Here my lord interfered on behalf of the young lady, but to 
no purpose ; the aunt proceeded till Sophia pulled out her hand- 
kerchief, threw herself into a chair, and burst into a violent fit 
of tears. 

The remainder of the conversation between Mrs Western 
and his lordship, till the latter withdrew, consisted of bitter 
lamentations on his side, and on hers of the strongest assur- 
ances that her niece should and would consent to all he wished. 

“Indeed, my lord,” says she, “the girl hath had a foolish edu- 
cation, neither adapted to her fortune nor her family. Her 
father, I am sorry to say it, is to blame for everything. The 
girl hath silly country notions of bashfulness. Nothing else, 
my lord, upon my honour ; I am convinced she hath a good un- 
derstanding at the bottom, and will be brought to reason.” 

This last speech was made in the absence of Sophia; for 
she had some time before left the room, with more appearance 
of passion than she had ever shown on any occasion; and now 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


399 


his lordship, after many expressions of thanks to Mrs Western, 
many ardent professions of passion which nothing could con- 
quer, and many assurances of perseverance, which Mrs Western 
highly encouraged, took his leave for this time. 

Before we relate what now passed between Mrs Western 
and Sophia, it may be proper to mention an unfortunate acci- 
dent which had happened, and which had occasioned the return 
of Mrs Western with so much fury, as we have seen. 

The reader then must know that the maid who at present 
attended on Sophia was recommended by Lady Bellaston, with 
whom she had lived for some time in the capacity of a comb- 
brush : she was a very sensible girl, and had received the strictest 
instructions to watch her young lady very carefully. These in- 
structions, we are sorry to say, were communicated to her by 
Mrs Honour, into whose favour Lady Bellaston had now so in- 
gratiated herself, that the violent affection which the good wait- 
ing-woman had formerly borne to Sophia was entirely oblit- 
erated by that great attachment which she had to her new mis- 
tress. 

Now, when Mrs Miller was departed, Betty (for that was 
the name of the girl), returning to her young lady, found her 
very attentively engaged in reading a long letter, and the visible 
emotions which she betrayed on that occasion might have well 
accounted for some suspicions which the girl entertained ; but 
indeed they had yet a stronger foundation, for she had over- 
heard the whole scene which passed between Sophia and Mrs 
Miller. 

Mrs Western was acquainted with all this matter by Betty, 
who, after receiving many commendations and some rewards 
for her fidelity, was ordered, that, if the woman who brought 
the letter came again, she should introduce her to Mrs Western 
herself. 

Unluckily, Mrs Miller returned at the very time when 
Sophia was engaged with his lordship. Betty, according to 
order, sent her directly to the aunt; who, being mistress of so 
many circumstances relating to what had past the day before, 
easily imposed upon the poor woman to believe that Sophia had 
communicated the whole affair; and so pumped everything out 
of her which she knew relating to the letter and relating to 
Jones. 

Mrs Western, having drained Mrs Miller of all she knew, 
which, indeed, was but little, but which was sufficient to make 


400 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


the aunt suspect a great deal, dismissed her with assurances that 
Sophia would not see her, that she would send no answer to the 
letter, nor ever receive another; nor did she suffer her to de- 
part without a handsome lecture on the merits of an office to 
which she could afford no better name than that of procuress. 
This discovery had greatly discomposed her temper, when, com- 
ing into the apartment next to that in which the lovers were, 
she overheard Sophia very warmly protesting against his lord- 
ship’s addresses. At which the rage already kindled burst forth, 
and she rushed in upon her niece in a most furious manner, as 
we have already described, together with what past at that time 
till his lordship’s departure. 

No sooner was Lord Fellamar gone than Mrs Western re- 
turned to Sophia, whom she upbraided in the most bitter terms 
for the ill use she had made of the confidence reposed in her; 
and for her treachery in conversing with a man with whom 
she had offered but the day before to bind herself in the most 
solemn oath never more to have any conversation. Sophia 
protested she had maintained no such conversation. 

“How, how! Miss Western,” said the aunt; “will you deny 
your receiving a letter from him yesterday?” 

“A letter, madam!” answered Sophia, somewhat surprized. 

“It is not very well bred, miss,” replies the aunt, “to re- 
peat my words. I say a letter, and I insist upon your showing 
it me immediately.” 

“I scorn a lie, madam,” said Sophia; “I did receive a letter, 
but it was without my desire, and, indeed, I may say, against 
my consent.” 

“Indeed, indeed, miss,” cries the aunt, “you ought to be 
ashamed of owning you had received it at all ; but where is the 
letter? for I will see it.” 

To this peremptory demand, Sophia paused some time be- 
fore she returned an answer; and at last only excused herself 
by declaring she had not the letter in her pocket, which was, 
indeed, true ; upon which her aunt, losing all manner of patience, 
asked her niece this short question, whether she would resolve to 
marry Lord Fellamar, or no? to which she received the strong- 
est negative. Mrs Western then replied with an oath, or some- 
thing very like one, that she would early the next morning 
deliver her back into her father’s hand. 




CHAPTER XXXVI. 

What happened to Mr Jones in the prison . 

]^/£R JONES passed about twenty-four melancholy hours by 
himself, unless when relieved by the company of Part- 
ridge, before Mr Nightingale returned; not that this worthy 
young man had deserted or forgot his friend; for, indeed, he 
had been much the greatest part of the time employed in his 
service. 

He had heard, upon enquiry, that the only persons who had 
seen the beginning of the unfortunate rencounter were a crew 
belonging to a man-of-war which then lay at Deptford. To 
Deptford therefore he went in search of this crew, where he was 
informed that the men he sought after were all gone ashore. 
He then traced them from place to place, till at last he found 
two of them drinking together, with a third person, at a hedge- 
tavern near Aldersgate. 

As soon as they were alone, Nightingale, taking Jones by 
the hand, cried, “Come, my brave friend, be not too much de- 
jected at what I am going to tell you but forgive me, my 

dear Tom, if I entreat you to make the worst of your story to 
your friends. If you disguise anything to us, you will only be 
an enemy to yourself.” 

“What reason, my dear Jack, have I ever given you,” said 
Jones, “to stab me with so cruel a suspicion?” 

“Have patience,” cries Nightingale, “and I will tell you all. 
After the most diligent enquiry I could make, I at last met with 
two of the fellows who were present at this unhappy accident, 
and I am sorry to say, they do not relate the story so much in 
your favour as you yourself have told it.” 

“Why, what do they say?” cries Jones. 

“Indeed what I am sorry to repeat, as I am afraid of the 
consequence of it to you. They say that they were at too great 
a distance to overhear any words that passed between you : but 
they both agree that the first blow was given by you.” 

“Then, upon my soul,” answered Jones, “they injure me. He 


402 


THE HISTORY OF TOM TONES. 


not only struck me first, but struck me without the least provo- 
cation. What should induce those villains to accuse me falsely ?” 

“Nay, that I cannot guess,” said Nightingale, “and if you 
yourself, and I, who am so heartily your friend, cannot con- 
ceive a reason why they should belie you, what reason 
will an indifferent court of justice be able to assign why 
they should not believe them? I repeated the question 
to them several times, and so did another gentleman who 
was present, who, I believe, is a seafaring man, and who 
really acted a very friendly part by you; for he begged them 
often to consider that there was the life of a man in the 
case; and asked them over and over, if they were certain; to 
which they both answered, that they were, and would abide by 
their evidence upon oath. For heaven’s sake, my dear friend, 
recollect yourself; for, if this should appear to be the fact, it 
will be your business to think in time of making the best of your 
interest. I would not shock you; but you know, I believe, the 
severity of the law, whatever verbal provocations may have 
been given you.” 

“Alas! my friend,” cries Jones, “what interest hath such a 
wretch as I? Besides, do you think I would even wish to live 
with the reputation of a murderer?” He then concluded with 
many solemn and vehement protestations of the truth of what he 
had at first asserted. 

The faith of Nightingale was now again staggered, and be- 
gan to incline to credit his friend, when Mrs Miller appeared, 
and made a sorrowful report of the success of her embassy; 
and a moment later, the turnkey acquainted Jones that there 
was a lady without who desired to speak with him when he was 
at leisure. 

Jones declared his surprize at this message. He said, he 
knew no lady in the world whom he could possibly expect to 
see there. However, as he saw no reason to decline seeing any 
person, Mrs Miller and Mr Nightingale presently took their 
leave, and he gave orders to have the lady admitted. 

If Jones was surprized at the news of a visit from a lady, 
how greatly was he astonished when he discovered this lady to 
be no other than Mrs Waters! In this astonishment then we 
shall leave him awhile, in order to cure the surprize of the 
reader, who will likewise, probably, not a little wonder at the 
arrival of this lady. 

Who this Mrs Waters was, the reader pretty well knows; 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


403 


what she was, he must be perfectly satisfied. He will therefore 
be pleased to remember that this lady departed from Upton 
in the same coach with Mr Fitzpatrick and the other Irish 
gentleman, and in their company travelled to Bath. 

Now there was a certain office in the gift of Mr Fitzpatrick 
at that time vacant, namely that of a wife: for the lady who 
had lately filled that office had resigned, or at least deserted her 
duty. Mr Fitzpatrick therefore, having thoroughly examined 
Mrs Waters on the road, found her extremely fit for the place, 
which, on their arrival at Bath, he presently conferred upon 
her, and she without any scruple accepted. As husband and wife 
this gentleman and lady continued together all the time they 
stayed at Bath, and as husband and wife they arrived together 
in town. 

Whether Mr Fitzpatrick was so wise a man as not to part 
with one good thing till he had secured another, which he had 
at present only a prospect of regaining; or whether Mrs Waters 
had so well discharged her office, that he intended still to re- 
tain her as principal, and to make his wife (as is often the case) 
only her deputy, I will not say; but certain it is, he never 
mentioned his wife to her, never communicated to her the let- 
ter given him by Mrs Western, nor ever once hinted his pur- 
pose of repossessing his wife; much less did he ever mention 
the name of Jones. The first account therefore which she had 
of all this was delivered to her from his lips, after he was 
brought home from the tavern where his wound had been 
drest. 

As Mr Fitzpatrick, however, had not the clearest way of tell- 
ing a story at any time, and was now, perhaps, a little more 
confused than usual, it was some time before she discovered that 
the gentleman who had given him this wound was the very- 
same person from whom her heart had received a wound, which, 
though not of a mortal kind, was yet so deep that it had left a 
considerable scar behind it. But no sooner was she acquainted 
that Mr Jones himself was the man who had been committed 
to the Gatehouse for this supposed murder, than she took the 
first opportunity of committing Mr Fitzpatrick to the care of 
his nurse, and hastened away to visit the conqueror. 

She now entered the room with an air of gaiety which re- 
ceived an immediate check from the melancholy aspect of poor 
Jones, who started and blessed himself when he saw her. Upon 
which she said, “Nay, I do not wonder at your surprize; I be- 


404 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


lieve you did not expect to see me; for few gentlemen are 
troubled here with visits from any lady, unless a wife. You 
see the power you have over me, Mr Jones. Indeed, I little 
thought, when we parted at Upton, that our next meeting would 
have been in such a place.” 

“Indeed, madam,” says Jones, “I must look upon this visit 
as kind ; few will follow the miserable, especially to such dismal 
habitations.” 

“I protest, Mr Jones,” says she, “I can hardly persuade my- , 
self you are the same agreeable fellow I saw at Upton. Why, 
your face is more miserable than any dungeon in the universe. 
What can be the matter with you?” 

“I thought, madam,” said Jones, “as you knew of my being 
here, you knew the unhappy reason.” 

“Pugh!” says she, “you have pinked a man in a duel, that’s 
all. The gentleman is not dead, and, I am pretty confident, is 
in no danger of dying. The surgeon, indeed, who first dressed 
him was a young fellow, and seemed desirous of representing 
his case to be as bad as possible, that he might have the more 
honour from curing him: but the king’s surgeon hath seen him 
since, and says, unless from a fever, of which there are at pres- 
ent no symptoms, he apprehends not the least danger of life.” 
Jones shewed great satisfaction in his countenance at this report; 
upon which she affirmed the truth of it, adding, “By the most 
extraordinary accident in the world I lodge at the same house; 
and have seen the gentleman, and I promise you he doth you 
justice, and says, whatever be the consequence, that he was en- 
tirely the aggressor, and that you was not in the least to blame.” 

Jones expressed the utmost satisfaction at the account 
which Mrs Waters brought him. He then informed her of 
many things which she well knew before, as who Mr Fitz- 
patrick was, the occasion of his resentment, &c. He likewise 
told her several facts of which she was ignorant, as the ad- 
venture of the muff, and other particulars, concealing only the 
name of Sophia. He then lamented the follies and vices of 
which he had been guilty ; every one of which, he said, had been 
attended with such ill consequences, that he should be unpardon- 
able if he did not take warning, and quit those vicious courses for 
the future. He lastly concluded with assuring her of his reso- 
lution to sin no more, lest a worse thing should happen to 
him. 

Mrs Waters with great pleasantry ridiculed all this, as the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


405 


effects of low spirits and confinement. She repeated some 
witticisms about the devil when he was sick, and told him, she 
doubted not but shortly to see him at liberty, and as lively a fel- 
low as ever; “and then,” says she, “I don’t question but your 
conscience will be safely delivered of all these qualms that it is 
now so sick in breeding.” 

Many more things of this kind she uttered, some of which 
it would do her no great honour, in the opinion of some readers, 
to remember; nor are we quite certain but that the answers 
made by Jones would be treated with ridicule by others. We 
shall therefore suppress the rest of this conversation, and only 
observe that it ended at last with perfect innocence, and much 
more to the satisfaction of Jones than of the lady; for the 
former was greatly transported with the news she had brought 
him ; but the latter was not altogether so pleased with the 
penitential behaviour of a man whom she had, at her first in- 
terview, conceived a very different opinion of from what she 
now entertained of him. 

Mrs Waters was scarcely gone, when Partridge came stum- 
bling into the room with his face paler than ashes, his eyes fixed 
in his head, his hair standing on end, and every limb tremblng. 
In short, he looked as he would have done had he seen a spectre, 
or had he, indeed, been a spectre himself. 

Jones, who was little subject to fear, could not avoid being 
somewhat shocked at this sudden appearance. Ke did, indeed, 
himself change colour, and his voice a little faltered while he 
asked him, what was the matter? 

“I hope, sir,” said Partridge, “you will not be angry with 
me. Indeed I did not listen, but I was obliged to stay in the 
outward room. I am sure I wish I had been a hundred miles 
off, rather than have heard what I have heard.” 

“Why, what is the matter?” said Jones. 

“The matter, sir? O good Heaven!” answered Partridge, 
“was that woman who is just gone out the woman who was 
with you at Upton?” 

“She was, Partridge,” cried Jones. 

“And did you really, sir, go to bed with that woman?” said 
he, trembling. 

“I am afraid what past between us is no secret,” said Jones. 

“Nay, but pray, sir, for Heaven’s sake, sir, answer me,” cries 
Partridge. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


406 

“You know I did,” cries Jones. 

“Why then, the Lord have mercy upon your soul, and for- 
give you,” cries Partridge; “but as sure as I stand here alive, 
you have been a-bed with your own mother. That woman 
who now went out is your own mother. How unlucky was it 
for you, sir, that I did not happen to see her at that time, to 
have prevented it! Sure the devil himself must have contrived 
to bring about this wickedness.” ' 

“Sure,” cries Jones, “Fortune will never have done with me 
till she hath driven me to distraction. But why do I blame 
Fortune? I am myself the cause of all my misery. All the 
dreadful mischiefs which have befallen me are the consequences 
only of my own folly and vice. What thou hast told me, 
Partridge, hath almost deprived me of my senses! And was 
Mrs Waters, then — but why do I ask? for thou must certainly 

know her If thou hast any affection for me, nay, if thou 

hast any pity, let me beseech thee to fetch this miserable woman 

back again to me. O good Heavens! incest with a mother! 

To what am I reserved!” 

He then fell into the most violent and frantic agonies of 
grief and despair, in which Partridge declared he would not 
leave him ; but at last, having vented the first torrent of passion, 
he came a little to himself; and then, having acquainted Par- 
tridge that he would find this wretched woman in the same 
house where the wounded gentleman was lodged, he despatched 
him in quest of her. 

After a fruitless search of two or three hours, Partridge re- 
turned back to his master, without having seen Mrs Waters. 
Jones, who was in a state of desperation at his delay, was almost 
raving mad when he brought him his account. He was not 
long, however, in this condition before he received the follow- 
ing letter: 

“SlR, . 

“Since I left you I have seen a gentleman, from whom 
I have learned something concerning you which greatly surprizes 
and affects me ; but as I have not at present leisure to communi- 
cate a matter of such high importance, you must suspend your 
curiosity till our next meeting, which shall be the first moment 
I am able to see you. O, Mr Jones, little did I think, when I 
past that happy day at Upton, the reflection upon which is like 
to embitter all my future life* who it was to whom I owed 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


407 


such perfect happiness. Believe me to be ever sincerely your 
unfortunate J. Waters. 

“P.S. I would have you comfort yourself as much as possible, 
for Mr Fitzpatrick is in no manner of danger; so that whatever 
other grievous crimes you may have to repent of, the guilt of 
blood is not among the number.” 

Jones having read the letter, let it drop (for he was unable 
to hold it, and indeed had scarce the use of any one of his facul- 
ties). Partridge took it up, and having received consent by 
silence, read it likewise; nor had it upon him a less sensible 
effect. The pencil, and not the pen, should describe the horrors 
which appeared in both their countenances. While they both 
remained speechless the turnkey entered the room, and, without 
taking any notice of wffiat sufficiently discovered itself in the 
faces of them both, acquainted Jones that a man without desired 
to speak with him. This person was presently introduced, and 
was no other than Black George. 

As sights of horror were not so usual to George as they were 
to the turnkey, he instantly saw the great disorder which ap- 
peared in the face of Jones. This he imputed to the accident 
that had happened, which was reported in the very worst light 
in Mr Western’s family ; he concluded, therefore, that the gen- 
tleman was dead, and that Mr Jones was in a fair way of 
coming to a shameful end. A thought which gave him much 
uneasiness; for George was of a compassionate disposition, and 
notwithstanding a small breach of friendship which he had been 
over-tempted to commit, was, in the main, not insensible of the 
obligations he had formerly received from Mr Jones. 

The poor fellow, therefore, scarce refrained from a tear at the 
present sight. He told Jones he was heartily sorry for his mis- 
fortunes, and begged him to consider if he could be of any 
manner of service. 

“Perhaps, sir,” said he, “you may w^ant a little matter of 
money upon this occasion; if you do, sir, what little I have is 
heartily at your service.” 

Jones shook him very heartily by the hand, and gave him 
many thanks for the kind offer he had made; but answered, he 
had not the least want of that kind. Upon which George began 
to press his services more eagerly than before. Jones again 
thanked him, with assurances that he wanted nothing which 
was in the power of any man living to give. 


408 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Come, come, my good master,” answered George, “do not 
take the matter so much to heart. Things may end better than 
you imagine; to be sure you an’t the first gentleman who hath 
killed a man, and yet come off.” 

“You are wide of the matter, George,” said Partridge, “the 
gentleman is not dead, nor like to die. Don’t disturb my 
master, at present, for he is troubled about a matter in which 
it is not in your power to do him any good.” 

“You don’t know what I may be able to do, Mr Partridge,” 
answered George; “if his concern is about my young lady, I 
have some news to tell my master.” 

“What do you say, Mr George?” cried Jones. “Hath any- 
thing lately happened in which my Sophia is concerned ? My 
Sophia! how dares such a wretch as I mention her so pro- 
fanely?” 

“I hope she will be yours yet,” answered George. “Why 
yes, sir, I have something to tell you about her. Madam 
Western hath just brought Madam Sophia home, and there 
hath been a terrible to do. I could not possibly learn the very 
right of it; but my master he hath been in a vast big passion, 
and so was Madam Western, and I heard her say, as she went 
out of doors into her chair, that she would never set her foot 
in master’s house again. I don’t know what’s the matter, not I, 
but everything w r as very quiet when I came out ; but Robin, who 
waited at supper, said he had never seen the squire for a long 
while in such good humour with young madam; that he kissed 
her several times, and sw^ore she should be her own mistress, 
and he never would think of confining her any more. I thought 
this news would please you, and so I slipped out, though it was 
so late, to inform you of it.” 

Mr Jones assured George that it did greatly please him ; 
for though he should never more presume to lift, his eyes toward 
that incomparable creature, nothing could so much relieve his 
misery as the satisfaction he should always have in hearing of 
her welfare. 

The rest of the conversation which passed at the visit is not 
important enough to be here related. The reader will, there- 
fore, forgive us this abrupt breaking off, and be pleased to hear 
how this great good-will of the squire towards his daughter 
was brought about. 

Mrs Western, on her first arrival at her brother’s lodging, 
began to set forth the great honours and advantages which 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


409 


would accrue to the family by the match with Lord Fellamar, 
which her niece had absolutely refused; in which refusal, when 
the squire took the part of his daughter, she fell immediately 
into the most violent passion, and so irritated and provoked the 
squire, that neither his patience nor his prudence could bear it 
any longer; upon which there ensued between them both so 
warm a bout at altercation, that perhaps the regions of Billings- 
gate never equalled it. In the heat of this scolding Mrs West- 
ern departed, and had consequently no leisure to acquaint her 
brother with the letter which Sophia received, which might 
have possibly produced ill effects; but, to say truth, I believe it 
never once occurred to her memory at this time. 

When Mrs Western was gone, Sophia, who had been hither- 
to silent, as well indeed from necessity as inclination, began to 
return the compliment which her father had made her, in taking 
her part against her aunt, by taking his likewise against the 
lady. This was the first time of her so doing, and it was in 
the highest degree acceptable to the squire. Again, He remem- 
bered that Mr Allworthy had insisted on an entire relinquish- 
ment of all violent means; and, indeed, as he made no doubt 
but that Jones would be hanged, he did not in the least question 
succeeding with his daughter by fair means; he now, therefore, 
once more gave a loose to his natural fondness for her, which 
had such an effect on the dutiful, grateful, tender, and affec- 
tionate heart of Sophia, that had her honour, given to Jones, 
and something else, perhaps, in which he was concerned, been 
removed, I much doubt whether she would not have sacrificed 
herself to a man she did not like, to have obliged her father. 
She promised him she would make it the whole business of her 
life to oblige him, and would never marry any man against his 
consent; which brought the old man so near to his highest 
happiness, that he was resolved to take the other step, and went 
to bed completely drunk. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

Allworthy visits old Nightingale, and makes a strange discovery, 

'JpHE morning after x these things had happened, Mr. All- 
worthy went to visit old Nightingale, with whom his 
authority was so great, that, after having sat with him three 
hours, he at last prevailed with him to consent to see his son. 

Here an accident happened of a very extraordinary kind ; one 
indeed of those strange chances whence very good and grave men 
have concluded that Providence often interposes in the dis- 
covery of the most secret villany, in order to caution men from 
quitting the paths of honesty, however warily they tread in 
those of vice. 

Mr Allworthy, at his entrance into Mr Nightingale’s, saw 
Black George; he took no notice of him, nor did Black George 
imagine he had perceived him. 

However, when their conversation on the principal point was 
over, Allworthy asked Nightingale, whether he knew one 
George Seagrim, and upon what business he came to his house? 

“Yes,” answered Nightingale, “I know him very well, and a 
most extraordinary fellow he is, who, in these days, hath been 
able to hoard up £500 from renting a very small estate of £30 
a year.” 

“And is this the story which he hath told you?” cries All- 
worthy. 

“Nay, it is true, I promise you,” said Nightingale, “for I 
have the money now in my own hands, in five bank-bills, which 
I am to lay out either in a mortgage, or in some purchase in the 
north of England.” 

The bank-bills were no sooner produced at Allworthy’s desire 
than he blessed himself at the strangeness of the discovery. He 
presently told Nightingale that these bank-bills were formerly 
his, and then acquainted him with the whole affair. Allworthy 
desired Nightingale to retain both the money and the secret till 
he should hear farther from him ; and, if he should in the mean- 
time see the fellow, that he would not take the least notice to 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


411 

him of the discovery which he had made. He then returned to 
his lodgings, where he found Mrs Miller in a very dejected 
condition, on account of the information she had received from 
her son-in-law. Mr All worthy, with great chearfulness, told 
her that he had much good news to communicate; and, with 
little further preface, acquainted her that he had brought Mr 
Nigthingale to consent to see his son. 

Allworthy, having left her a little while to chew the cud (if 
I may use that expression) on these first tidings, told her he had 
still something more to impart, which he believed would give 
her pleasure. 

“I think,” said he, “I have discovered a pretty considerable 
treasure belonging to the young gentleman, your friend ; but 
perhaps, indeed, his present situation may be such that it will 
be of no service to him.” 

The latter part of the speech gave Mrs Miller to understand 
who was meant, and she answered with a sigh, “I hope not, 
sir.” 

“I hope so too,” cries Allworthy, “with all my heart; but my 
nephew told me this morning he had heard a very bad account 
of the affair.” 

“Good Heaven! sir,” said she — “Well, I must not speak, 
and yet it is certainly very hard to be obliged to hold one’s 
tongue when one hears ” 

“Madam,” said Allworthy, “you may say whatever you 
please, you know me too well to think I have a prejudice against 
any one; and as for that young man, I assure you I should be 
heartily pleased to find he could acquit himself of everything, 
and particularly of this sad affair. You can testify the affec- 
tion I have formerly borne him. The world, I know, censured 
me for loving him so much. I did not withdraw that affection 
from him without thinking I had the justest cause. Believe 
me, Mrs Miller, I should be glad to find I have been mistaken.” 

Mrs Miller was going eagerly to reply, w T hen a servant ac- 
quainted her that a gentleman without desired to speak with 
her immediately, and she presently introduced Mr Nightingale 
the younger, to return thanks for the great kindness done him 
by Allworthy: but she had scarce patience to let the young 
gentleman finish his speech before she interrupted him, saying, 
“O sir! Mr Nightingale brings great news about poor Mr 
Jones: he hath been to see the wounded gentleman, who is 
out of all danger of death, and, what is more, declares he fell 


412 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


upon poor Mr Jones himself, and beat him. I am sure, sir, 
you would not have Mr Jones be a coward. If I was a man 
myself, I am sure, if any man was to strike me, I should draw 
my sword. Do pray, my dear, tell Mr Allworthy, tell him all 
yourself.” 

Nightingale then confirmed what Mrs Miller had said ; and 
concluded with many handsome things of Jones, who was, he 
said, one of the best-natured fellows in the world, and not in 
the least inclined to be quarrelsome. Here Nightingale was 
going to cease, when Mrs Miller again begged him to relate 
all the many dutiful expressions he had heard him make use of 
towards Mr Allworthy. 

“To say the utmost good of Mr All worthy,” cries Nightin- 
gale, “is doing no more than strict justice, and can have no 
merit in it : but indeed, I must say, no man can be more sensible 
of the obligations he hath to so good a man than is poor Jones. 
Indeed, sir, I am convinced the weight of your displeasure is 
the heaviest burthen he lies under.” 

“Indeed, Mr Nightingale,” answered Allworthy, “I applaud 
your generous friendship, and I wish he may merit it of you. 
I confess I am glad to hear the report you bring from this 
unfortunate gentleman ; and, if that matter should turn out to 
be as you represent it (and, indeed, I doubt nothing of what 
you say), I may, perhaps, in time, be brought to think better 
than lately I have of this young man ; for this good gentle- 
woman here, nay, all who know me, can witness that I loved 
him as dearly as if he had been my own son.” At which words 
he ceased, and the tears stood in his eyes. 

This alteration in the mind of Mr Allworthy and the 
abatement of his anger to Jones, was occasioned by the follow- 
ing letter he had just received from Mr Square, who, as we 
have before stated, was at Bath : 

“My Worthy Friend, 

“I informed you in my last that I was forbidden the use 
of the waters, as they were found by experience rather to in- 
crease than lessen the symptoms of my distemper. I must now 
acquaint you with a piece of news, which, I believe, will afflict 
my friends more than it hath afflicted me. Dr Harrington and 
Dr Brewster have informed me that there is no hopes of my 
recovery. 

“When I reflect on the actions of my past life, I know of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


413 


nothing which sits heavier upon my conscience than the in- 
justice I have been guilty of to that poor wretch your adopted 
son. I have, indeed, not only connived at the villany of others, 
but been myself active in injustice towards him. Believe me, 
my dear friend, when I tell you, on the word of a dying man, 
he hath been basely injured. As to the principal fact, upon the 
misrepresentation of which you discarded him, I solemnly assure 
you he is innocent. When you lay upon your supposed death- 
bed, he w’as the only person in the house who testified any real 
concern ; and what happened afterwards arose from the wild- 
ness of his joy on your recovery; and, I am sorry to say it, from 
the baseness of another person (but it is my desire to justify the 
innocent, and to accuse none). Believe me, my friend, this 
young man hath the noblest generosity of heart, the most 
perfect capacity for friendship, the highest integrity, and 
indeed every virtue which can ennoble a man. He hath some 
faults, but among them is not to be numbered the least want 
of duty or gratitude towards you. On the contrary, I am satis- 
fied, when you dismissed him from your house, his heart bled 
for you more than for himself. 

“Worldly motives were the wicked and base reasons of my 
concealing this from you so long: to reveal it now I can have 
no inducement but the desire of serving the cause of truth, of 
doing right to the innocent, and of making all the amends in my 
power for a past offence. I hope this declaration, therefore, will 
have the effect desired, and will restore this deserving young 
man to your favour; the hearing of which, while I am yet 
alive, will afford the utmost consolation to, 

“Sir, 

Your most obliged, 

obedient humble servant, 
“Thomas Square.” 

Mr Allworthy, in his last speech, had recollected some tender 
ideas concerning Jones, which had brought tears into the good 
man’s eyes. This Mrs Miller observing, said, “Yes, yes, sir, 
your goodness to this poor young man is known, notwithstand- 
ing all your care to conceal it; but there is not a single syllable 
of truth in what those villains said. Mr Nightingale hath now 
discovered the whole matter. It seems these fellows were 
employed by a lord, who is a rival of poor Mr Jones, to have 
pressed him on board a ship. 1 assure them I don’t know 


414 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


who they will press next. Mr Nightingale here hath seen the 
officer himself, who is a very pretty gentleman, and hath told 
him all, and is very sorry for what he undertook, which he 
would never have done, had he known Mr Jones to have been a 
gentleman; but he was told that he was a common strolling 
vagabond.” 

Allworthy stared at all this, and declared he was a stranger 
to every word she said. 

“Yes, sir,” answered she, “I believe you are. It is a very 

different story, I believe, from what those fellows told the 
lawyer.” 

“What lawyer, madam? what is it you mean?” said All- 
worthy. 

“Nay, nay,” said she, “this is so like you to deny your own 
goodness: but Mr Nightingale here saw him.” 

“Saw whom, madam?” answered he. 

“Why, your lawyer, sir,” said she, “that you so kindly sent 
to enquire into the affair.” 

“I am still in the dark, upon my honour,” said Allworthy. 

“Why then do you tell him, my dear sir,” cries she. 

“Indeed, sir,” said Nightingale, “I did see your lawyer at an 
alehouse in Aldersgate, in company with two of the fellows 
who were employed by Lord Fellamar to press Mr Jones, and 
who were by that means present at the unhappy rencounter be- 
tween him and Mr Fitzpatrick.” 

Allworthy shewed marks of astonishment in his countenance 
at this news, and was indeed for two or three minutes struck 
dumb by it. At last, addressing himself to Mr Nightingale, he 
said, “I must confess myself, sir, more surprized at what you 
tell me than I have ever been before at anything in my whole 
life. Are you certain this was the gentleman?” 

“I am most certain,” answered Nightingale. 

“At Aldersgate?” cries Allworthy. “And was you in com- 
pany with this lawyer and the two fellows?” 

“I was, sir,” said the other, “very near half an hour.” 

“Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “and in what manner did the 
lawyer behave? did you hear all that past between him and the 
fellows ?” 

“No, sir,” answered Nightingale, “they had been together 
before I came. — In my presence the lawyer said little; but, 
after I had several times examined the fellows, who persisted 
in a story directly contrary to what I had heard from Mr 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


415 

Jones, and which I find by Mr Fitzpatrick was a rank false- 
hood, the lawyer then desired the fellows to say nothing but 
what w T as the truth, and seemed to speak so much in favour of 
Mr Jones, that, when I just now saw the same person leaving 
the house and learned he was your lawyer, I concluded your 
goodness had prompted you to send him thither.” 

“And did you not send him thither?” says Mrs Miller. 

“Indeed I did not,” answered Allworthy; “nor did I know 
he had gone on such an errand till this moment.” 

“I see it all!” said Mrs Miller, “upon my soul, I see it all! 
No wonder they have been closeted so close lately. Son Night- 
ingale, let me beg you run for these fellows immediately 

find them out if they are above-ground. I will go myself ” 

“Dear madam,” said Allworthy, “be patient, and do me the 
favour to send a servant upstairs to call Mr Dowling hither, 
if he be returned, or, if not, Mr Blifil.” 

Mrs Miller went out muttering something to herself, and 
presently returned with an answer, that Mr Dowling was gone; 
but that the t’other was coming. 

Allworthy was of a cooler disposition than the good woman, 
whose spirits were all up in arms in the cause of her friend. 
He was not however without some suspicions which were near 
akin to hers. When Blifil came into the room, he asked him 
with a very serious countenance, and with a less friendly look 
than he had ever before given him, whether he knew anything 
of Mr Dowling’s having seen any of the persons who were 
present at the duel between Jones and another gentleman? 

There is nothing so dangerous as a question which comes by 
surprize on a man whose business it is to conceal truth, or to 
defend falsehood. Besides, the sudden and violent impulse on 
the blood, occasioned by these surprizes, causes frequently such 
an alteration in the countenance, that the man is obliged to 
give evidence against himself. And such indeed were the altera- 
tions which the countenance of Blifil underwent from this 
sudden question, that we can scarce blame the eagerness of Mrs 
Miller, who immediately cried out, “Guilty, upon my honour! 
guilty, upon my soul!” 

Mr Allworthy sharply rebuked her for this impetuosity; and 
then turning to Blifil, who seemed sinking into the earth, he 
said, “Why do you hesitate, sir, at giving me an answer? You 
certainly must have employed him; for he would not, of his 


416 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


own accord, I believe, have undertaken such an errand, and 
especially without acquainting me.” 

Blifil then answered, “I own, sir, I have been guilty of an 
offence, yet may I hope your pardon?” 

“My pardon,” said Allworthy, very angrily. 

“Nay, sir,” answered Blifil, “I knew you would be offended; 
yet surely my dear uncle will forgive the effects of the most 
amiable of human weaknesses. Compassion for those who do 
not deserve it, I own is a crime ; and yet it is a crime from which 
you yourself are not entirely free. I know I have been guilty 
of it in more than one instance to this very person; and I will 
own I did send Mr Dowling, not on a vain and fruitless en- 
quiry, but to discover the witnesses, and to endeavour to soften 
their evidence. This, sir, is the truth; which, though I in- 
tended to conceal from you, I will not deny.” 

“I confess,” said Nightingale, “this is the light in which it 
appeared to me from the gentleman’s behaviour.” 

“Now, madam,” said Allworthy, “I believe you will once in 
your life own you have entertained a wjpng suspicion, and are 
not so angry with my nephew as you w&&*’ 

Mrs Miller w T as silent; for, though she could not so hastily 
be pleased with Blifil, whom she looked upon to have been the 
ruin of Jones, yet in this particular instance he had imposed 
upon her as well as upon the rest; so entirely had the devil 
stood his friend. 

As a conquered rebellion strengthens a government, or as 
health is more perfectly established by recovery from some dis- 
eases ; so anger, when removed, often gives new life to affection. 
This was the case of Mr Allworthy; for Blifil having wiped 
off the greater suspicion, the lesser, which had been raised by 
Square’s letter, sunk of course, and was forgotten. 

As for Jones, the resentment of Mr Allworthy began more 
and more to abate towards him. He told Blifil, he did not only 
forgive the extraordinary efforts of his good-nature, but would 
give him the pleasure of following his example. Then, turning 
to Mrs Miller with a smile which w^ould have become an angel, 
he cried, “What say you, madam? shall we take a hackney- 
coach, and all of us together pay a visit to your friend? I 
promise you it is not the first visit I have made in a prison.” 

Every reader, I believe, will be able to answer for the worthy 
woman; but they must have a great deal of good-nature, 
and be well acquainted with friendship, who can feel 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


417 


what she felt on this occasion. Few, I hope, are capable of 
feeling what now passed in the mind of Blifil; but those who 
are will acknowledge that it was impossible for him to raise 
any objection to this visit. Fortune, however, or the gentleman 
lately mentioned above, stood his friend, and prevented his 
undergoing so great a shock; for at the very instant when the 
coach was sent for, Partridge arrived, and, having called Mrs 
Miller from the company, acquainted her with the dreadful 
accident lately come to light; and hearing Mr Allworthy’s in- 
tention, begged her to find some means of stopping him. 

“For,” says he, “the matter must at all hazards be kept a 
secret from him; and if he should now go, he will find Mr 
Jones and his mother, who arrived just as I left him, lamenting 
over one another the horrid crime they have ignorantly com- 
mitted.” 

The poor woman, who was almost deprived of her senses at 
his dreadful news, was never less capable of invention than at 
present. However, as women are much readier at this than 
men, she bethought herself of an excuse, and, returning to All- 
worthy, said, “I am sure, sir, you will be surprized at hearing 
any objection from me to the kind proposal you just now made; 
and yet I am afraid of the consequence of it, if carried imme- 
diately into execution. You must imagine, sir, that all the 
calamities which have lately befallen this poor young fellow’ 
must have throwm him into the lowest dejection of spirits; and 
now, sir, should w T e all on a sudden fling him into such a violent 
fit of joy, as I know your presence will occasion, it may, I am 
afraid, produce some fatal mischief, especially as his servant, 
who is without, tells me he is very far from being well.” 

“Is his servant without?” cries Allworthy; “pray call him 
hither. I will ask him some questions concerning his master.” 

Partridge was at first afraid to appear before Mr Allworthy; 
but was at length persuaded, after Mrs Miller, who had often 
heard his whole story from his own mouth, had promised to 
introduce him. Allw^orthy recollected Partridge the moment 
he came into the room, though many years had passed since he 
had seen him. 

“And are you,” said Allw^orthy to Partridge, “the servant of 
Mr Jones?” 

“I can’t say, sir,” answered he, “that I am regularly a serv- 
ant, but I live with him, an’t please your honour, at present. 
Non sum qualis eram , as your honour very w^ell knows.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


418 

Mr Allworthy then asked him many questions concerning 
Jones, as to his health, and other matters; to all which Part- 
ridge answered, without having the least regard to what was, 
but considered only what he would have things appear; for a 
strict adherence to truth was not among the articles of this 
honest fellow’s morality or his religion. 

During this dialogue Mr Nightingale took his leave, and 
presently after Mrs Miller left the room, when Allworthy 
likewise despatched Blifil ; for he imagined that Partridge when 
alone with him would be more explicit than before company. 

“Sure, friend,” said the good man, when they were alone, 
“you are the strangest of all human beings. Not only to have 
suffered as you have formerly for obstinately persisting in a 
falsehood, but to persist in it thus to the last, and to pass thus 
upon the world for a servant of your own son ! What interest 
can you have in ail this? What can be your motive?” 

“I see, sir,” said Partridge, falling down upon his knees, 
“that your honour is prepossessed against me, and resolved not 
to believe anything I say, and, therefore, what signifies my 
protestations? but yet there is one above who knows that I am 
not the father of this young man.” 

“How!” said Allworthy, “will you yet deny what you was 
formerly . convicted of upon such unanswerable, such manifest 
evidence?” 

“I protest, sir,” cried Partridge, “that I am no more the 
father of Jones than of the Pope of Rome,” and he imprecated 
the most bitter curses on his head, if he did not speak the truth. 

“What am I to think of this matter?” cries Allworthy. 
“For what purpose should you so strongly deny a fact which 
I think it would be rather your interest to own?” 

“Nay, sir,” answered Partridge (for he could hold no 
longer), “if your honour will not believe me, you are like soon 
to have satisfaction enough. I wish you had mistaken the 
mother of this young man, as well as you have his father.” 

And now being asked what he meant, with all the symptoms 
of horror, both in his voice and countenance, he told Allworthy 
the whole story, which he had a little before expressed such 
desire to Mrs Miller to conceal from him. Allworthy was 
almost as much shocked at this discovery as Partridge himself 
had been while he related it. 

“Good heavens!” says he, “in what miserable distresses do 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


419 


vice and imprudence involve men ! How much beyond our 
designs are the effects of wickedness sometimes carried !” 

He had scarce uttered these words, when Mrs Waters came 
hastily and abruptly into the room. Partridge no sooner saw 
her than he cried, “Here, sir, here is the very woman herself. 
This is the unfortunate mother of Mr Jones. I am sure she 
will acquit me before your honour. Pray, madam ” 

Mrs Waters, without paying any regard to what Partridge 
said, and almost without taking any notice of him, advanced to 
Mr All worthy. 

“I believe, sir, it is so long since I had the honour of seeing 
you, that you do not recollect me.” 

“Indeed,” answered Allworthy, “you are so very much 
altered, on many accounts, that had not this man already ac- 
quainted me who you are, I should not have immediately called 
you to my remembrance. Have you, madam, any particular 
business which brings you to me ?” 

“Indeed, sir, I have very particular business with you; and 
it is such as I can impart only to yourself. I must desire, there- 
fore, the favour of a word with you alone: for I assure you 
what I have to tell you is of the utmost importance.” 

Partridge was then ordered to withdraw, but before he went, 
he begged the lady to satisfy Mr Allworthy that he was per- 
fectly innocent. To which she answered, “You need be under 
no apprehension, sir; I shall satisfy Mr Allworthy very per- 
fectly of that matter.” 

Then Partridge withdrew, and Mrs Waters remaining a few 
moments silent, Mr Aliworthy could not refrain from saying, 
“I am sorry, madam, to perceive, by what I have since heard, 
that you have made so very ill a use -” 

“Mr Allworthy,” says she, interrupting him, “I know I 
have faults, but ingratitude to you is not one of them. I never 
can nor shall forget your goodness, which I own I have very 
little deserved ; but be pleased to waive all upbraiding me at 
present, as I have so important an affair to communicate to you 
concerning this young man, to whom you have given my maiden 
name of Jones.” 

“Have I then,” said Allworthy, “ignorantly punished an 
innocent man, in the person of him who hath just left us? 
Was he not the father of the child?” 

“Indeed he was not,” said Mrs Waters. “You may be 
pleased to remember, sir, I formerly told you, you should one 


420 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


day know; and I acknowledge myself to have been guilty of a 
cruel neglect, in not having discovered it to you before. In- 
deed, I little knew how necessary it was.” 

“Well, madam,” said Allworthy, “be pleased to proceed.” 

“You must remember, sir,” said she, “a j^oung fellow, whose 
name was Summer.” 

“Very well,” cries Allworthy, “he was the son of a clergyman 
of great learning and virtue, for whom I had the highest 
friendship.” 

“So it appeared, sir,” answered she; “for I believe you bred 
the young man up, and maintained him at the university ; where, 
I think, he had finished his studies, when he came to reside at 
your house ; a finer man, I must say, the sun never shone upon ; 
for, besides the handsomest person I ever saw, he was so genteel, 
and had so much wit and good breeding.” 

“Poor gentleman,” said Allworthy, “he was indeed untimely 
snatched away; and little did I think he had any sins of this 
kind to answer for; for I plainly perceive you are going to tell 
me he was the father of your child.” 

“Indeed, sir,” answered she, “he was not.” 

“How!” said Allworthy, “to what then tends all this 
preface?” 

“To a story,” said she, “which I am concerned falls to my 
lot to unfold to you. O, sir! prepare to hear something which 
will surprize you, will grieve you.” 

“Speak,” said Allworthy, “I am conscious of no crime, and 
cannot be afraid to hear.” 

“Sir,” said she, “that Mr Summer, the son of your friend, 
educated at your expense, who, after living a year in the house 
as if he had been your own son, died there of the small-pox, was 
tenderly lamented by you, and buried as if he had been your 
own; that Summer, sir, was the father of this child, but not 
by me.” 

“Take care, madam,” said Allworthy, “do not, to shun the 
imputation of any crime, be guilty of falsehood. Remember 
there is One from whom you can conceal nothing, and before 
whose tribunal falsehood will only aggravate your guilt.” 

“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I am not his mother; nor would I 
now think myself so for the world.” 

“I know your reason,” said Allworthy, “and shall rejoice as 
much as you to find it otherwise; yet you must remember, you 
yourself confest it before me.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


421 

So far what I confest,” said she, “was true, that these hands 
conveyed the infant to your bed ; conveyed it thither at the 
command of its mother ; at her commands I afterwards owned 
it, and thought myself, by her generosity, nobly rewarded, both 
for my secrecy and my shame.” 

“Who could this woman be?” said Allworthy. 

“Indeed, I tremble to name her,” answered Mrs Waters. 

“By all this preparation I am to guess that she was a relation 
of mine,” cried he. 

“Indeed she was a near one. You had a sister, sir.” 

“A sister!” repeated he, looking aghast. 

“As there is truth in heaven,” cries she, “your sister was the 
mother of that child you found between your sheets.” 

“Can it be possible?” cries he, “Good heavens!” 

“Have patience, sir,” said Mrs. Waters, “and I will unfold 
to you the whole story. Just after your departure for London, 
Miss Bridget came one day to the house of my mother. She 
was pleased to say she had heard an extraordinary character of 
me, for my learning and superior understanding to all the 
young women there, so she was pleased to say. She then bid me 
come to her to the great house; where, when I attended, she 
employed me to read to her. She expressed great satisfaction in 
my reading, shewed great kindness to me, and made me many 
presents. At last she began to catechise me on the subject of 
secrecy, to which I gave her such satisfactory answers, that, at 
last, having locked the door of her room, she took me into her 
closet, and then locking that door likewise, she said she should 
convince me of the vast reliance she had on my integrity, by 
communicating a secret in which her honour, and consequently 
her life, was concerned. She then stopt, and after a silence of 
a few minutes, during which she often wiped her eyes, she 
enquired of me if I thought my mother might safely be confided 
in. I answered, I would stake my life on her fidelity. She 
then imparted to me the great secret which laboured in her 
breast, and which, I believe, was delivered with more pains 
than she afterwards suffered in child-birth. It was then con- 
trived that my mother and myself only should attend at the 
time, and that Mrs Wilkins should be sent out of the way, as 
she accordingly w^as to the very furthest part of Dorsetshire, to 
enquire the character of a servant; for the lady had turned 
away her own maid near three months before ; during all which 
time I officiated about her person upon trial, as she said, though, 


422 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


as she afterwards declared, I was not sufficiently handy for the 
place. At last the expected day came, and Mrs. Wilkins, who 
had been kept a week in readiness, and put off from time to 
time, upon some pretence or other, that she might not return 
too soon, was dispatched. Then the child was born, in the 
presence only of myself and my mother, and was by my mother 
conveyed to her own house, where it was privately kept by her 
till the evening of your return, when I, by the command of 
Miss Bridget, conveyed it into the bed where you found it. 
And all suspicions were afterwards laid asleep by the artful 
conduct of your sister, in pretending ill-will to the boy, and 
that any regard she shewed him was out of mere complacence 
to you.” 

“I need not, madam,” said Allworthy, “express my astonish- 
ment at what you have told me ; and yet surely you would not, 
and could not, have put together so many circumstances to 
evidence an untruth. I confess I recollect some passages relat- 
ing to that Summer, which formerly gave me a conceit that my 
sister had some liking to him. Well! the Lord disposeth all 

things. Yet sure it was a most unjustifiable conduct in my 

sister to carry this secret with her out of the world.” 

“I promise you, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “she always profest 
a contrary intention, and frequently told me she intended one 
day to communicate it to you. She said, indeed, she was highly 
rejoiced that her plot had succeeded so well, and that you had 
of your own accord taken such a fancy to the child, that it was 
yet unnecessary to make any express declaration. Oh! sir, had 
that lady lived to have seen this poor young man turned like a 
vagabond from your house: nay, sir, could she have lived to 
hear that you had yourself employed a lawyer to prosecute him 

for a murder of which he was not guilty Forgive me, Mr 

Allworthy, I must say it was unkind. — Indeed, you have been 
abused, he never deserved it of you.” 

“Indeed, madam,” said Allworthy, “I have been abused by 
the person, whoever he was, that told you so.” 

“Nay, sir,” said she, “I would not be mistaken, I did not 
presume to say you were guilty of any wrong. The gentleman 
who came to me proposed no such matter; he only said, taking 
me for Mr Fitzpatrick’s wife, that, if Mr Jones had murdered 
my husband, I should be assisted with any money I wanted to 
carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentleman, who, he 
said, was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. It 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


423 

was by this man I found out who Mr Jones was; and this man, 
whose name is Dowling, Mr Jones tells me is your steward.” 

“And did this . Mr Dowling,” says Allworthy, with great 
astonishment in his countenance, “tell you that I would assist in 
the prosecution?” 

No, sir,” answered she, “I will not charge him wrongfully. 
He said I should be assisted, but he mentioned no name. Yet 
you must pardon me, sir, if from circumstances I thought it 
could be no other.” 

“Indeed, madam,” says Allworthy, “from circumstances I am 
too well convinced it was another. Good heaven ! by what won- 
derful means is the blackest and deepest villany sometimes dis- 
covered ! — Shall I beg you, madam, to stay till the person you 
have mentioned comes, for I expect him every minute? nay, ne 
may be, perhaps, already in the house.” 

Allworthy then stept to the door, in order to call a servant, 
when in came, not Mr Dowling, but Mr Western. He no 
sooner saw Allworthy, than, without considering in the least 
the presence of Mrs Waters, he began to vociferate in the fol- 
lowing manner: “Fine doings at my house! A rare kettle of 
fish I have discovered at last! who the devil would be plagued 
with a daughter?” 

“What’s the matter, neighbour?” said Allworthy. 

“Matter enough,” answered Western: “when I thought she 
was just a coming to; nay, when she had in a manner promised 
me to do as I would ha her, and when I was a hoped to have 
had nothing more to do than to have sent for the lawyer, and 
finished all ; what do you think I have found out ? that the 
little b — hath bin playing tricks with me all the while, and 
carrying on a correspondence with that bastard of yours. Sis- 
ter Western, whom I have quarrelled with upon her account, 
sent me word o’t, and I ordered her pockets to be searched 
when she was asleep, and here I have got un signed with the 
son of a whore’s own name. I have not had patience to read 
half o’t, for ’tis longer than one of parson Supple’s sermons; 
but I find plainly it is all about love ; and indeed what should it 
be else? I have packed her up in chamber again, and to-mor- 
row morning down she goes into the country, unless she con- 
sents to be married directly, and there she shall live in a garret 
upon bread and water all her days; and the sooner such a 
b — breaks her heart the better, though, d — n her, that I be- 
lieve is too tough. She will live long enough to plague me.” 


424 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


“Mr Western,” answered Allworthy, “you know I have al- 
ways protested against force, and you yourself consented that 
none should be used.” 

“Ay,” cries he, “that was only upon condition that she would 
consent without. What the devil and doctor Faustus! shan’t 
I do what I will with my own daughter, especially when I 
desire nothing but her own good?” 

“Well, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “if you will give 
me leave, I will undertake once to argue with the young lady.” 

“Will you?” said Western; “why that is kind now, and 
neighbourly, and mayhap you will do more than I have been 
able to do with her; for I promise you she hath a very good 
opinion of you.” 

“Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “if you will go home, and re- 
lease the young lady from her captivity, I will wait upon her 
within this half-hour.” 

“But suppose,” said Western, “she should run away with un 
in the meantime? For lawyer Dowling tells me there is no 
hopes of hanging the fellow at last; for that the man is alive, 
and like to do well, and that he thinks Jones will be out of 
prison again presently.” . 

“How!” said Allworthy; “what, did you employ him then to 
enquire or to do anything in that matter?” 

“Not I,” answered Western, “he mentioned it to me just 
now of his own accord.” 

“Just now!” cries Allworthy, “why, where did you see him 
then? I want much to see Mr Dowling.” 

“Why, you may see un an you will presently at my lodgings ; 
for there is to be a meeting of lawyers there this morning about 
a mortgage. ’Icod ! I shall lose two or dree thousand pounds, 
I believe, by that honest gentleman, Mr Nightingale.” 

“Well, sir,” said Allworthy, “I will be with you within the 
half-hour.” 

“And do for once,” cries the squire, “take a fool’s advice; 
never think of dealing with her by gentle methods, take my 
word for it those will never do. I have tried ’um long enough. 
She must be frightened into it, there is no other way. Tell her 
I’m her father; and of the horrid sin of disobedience, and of 
the dreadful punishment of it in t’other world, and then tell 
her about being locked up all her life in a garret in this, and 
being kept only on bread and water.” 

“I will do all I can,” said Allworthy; “far I promise you 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


425 

there is nothing I wish for more than an alliance with this 
amiable creature.” 

“Nay, the girl is well enough for matter o’ that,” cries the 
squire ; “a man may go farther and meet with worse meat ; that 
I may declare o’ her, thof she be my own daughter. And if 
she will but be obedient to me, there is narrow a father within 
a hundred miles o’ the place, that loves a daughter better than 
I do; but I see you are busy with the lady here, so I will go 
huome and expect you ; and so your humble servant.” 

As soon as Mr Western was gone Mrs Waters said, “I see, 
sir, the squire hath not the least remembrance of my face. I 
believe, Mr All worthy, you would not have known me neither. 
I am very considerably altered since that day when you so kindly 
gave me that advice, which I had been happy had I followed.” 

“Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it gave me great con- 
cern when I first heard the contrary.” 

“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I was ruined by a very deep scheme 
of villany, which if you knew, though I pretend not to think 
it would justify me in your opinion, it would at least mitigate 
my offence, and induce you to pity me: you are not now at 
leisure to hear my whole story; but this I assure you, I was 
betrayed by the most solemn promises of marriage. Necessity 
drove me into the arms of Captain Waters, with whom, though 
still unmarried, I lived as a wife for many years, and went 
by his name. I parted with this gentleman at Worcester, on 
his march against the rebels, and it was then I accidentally 
met with Mr Jones, who rescued me from the hands of a vil- 
lain. Indeed, he is the worthiest of men. No young gentle- 
man of his age is, I believe, freer from vice, and few have the 
twentieth part of his virtues; nay, whatever vices he hath had, 
I am firmly persuaded he hath now taken a resolution to aban- 
don them.” 

“I hope he hath,” cries Allworthy, “and I hope he will pre- 
serve that resolution. I must say, I have still the same hopes 
with regard to yourself. This you may be assured of, Mrs 
Waters, that whenever I find you are sincere in good inten- 
tions, you shall want no assistance in my power to make them 
effectual.” 

Mrs Waters fell now upon her knees before him, and, in a 
flood of tears, made him many most passionate acknowledg- 
ments of his goodness, which, as she truly said, savoured more 
of the divine than human nature. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


426 

Allworthy raised her up, and spoke in the most tender mam 
ner, making use of every expression which his invention could 
suggest to comfort her, when he was interrupted by the ar- 
rival of Mr Dowling, who, upon his first entrance, seeing 
Mrs Waters, started, and appeared in some confusion ; from 
which he soon recovered himself as well as he could, and then 
said he was in the utmost haste to attend counsel at Mr West- 
ern’s lodgings. 

Allworthy, without making any answer to this, bolted the 
door, and then, advancing with a stern look to Dowling, he 
said, “Whatever be your haste, sir, I must first receive an 
answer to some questions. Do you know this lady?” 

“That lady, sir!” answered Dowling, with great hesita- 
tion. 

Allworthy then, with the most solemn voice, said, “Look you, 
Mr Dowling, as you value my favour, or your continuance a 
moment longer in my service, do not hesitate nor prevaricate; 

but answer faithfully and truly to every question I ask. Do 

you know this lady?” 

“Yes, sir,” said Dowling, “I have seen the lady.” 

“Where, sir?” 

“At her own lodgings.” 

“Upon what business did you go thither, sir; and who sent 
you ?” 

“I went, sir, to enquire, sir, about Mr Jones.” 

“And who sent you to enquire about him?” 

“Who, sir? why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me.” 

“And what did you say to the lady concerning that mat- 
ter?” 

“Nay, sir, it is impossible to recollect every word.” 

“Will you please, madam, to assist the gentleman’s mem- 
ory?” 

“He told me, sir,” said Mrs Waters, “that if Mr Jones had 
murdered my husband, I should be assisted by any money I 
wanted to carry on the prosecution, by a very worthy gentle- 
man, who was well apprized what a villain I had to deal with. 
These, I can safely swear, were the very words he spoke.” 

“Were these the words, sir?” said Allworthy. 

“I cannot charge my memory exactly,” cries Dowling, “but 
I believe I did speak to that purpose.” 

“And did Mr Blifil order you to say so?” 

“I am sure, sir, I should not have gone on my own accord, 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


427 

nor have willingly exceeded my authority in matters of this 
kind. If I said so, I must have so understood Mr Blifil’s in- 
structions.” 

“Look you, Mr Dowling,” said Allworthy; “I promise you 
before this lady, that whatever you have done in this affair by 
Mr Blifil’s order I will forgive, provided you now tell me 
strictly the truth ; for I believe what you say, that you would 
not have acted of your own accord and without authority in 

this matter. Mr Blifil then likewise sent you to examine the 

two fellows at Aldersgate?” 

“He did, sir.” 

“Well, and what instructions did he then give you? Recol- 
lect as well as you can, and tell me, as near as possible, the 
very words he used.” 

“Why, sir, Mr Blifil sent me to find out the persons who 
were eye-witnesses of this fight. He said, he feared they might 
be tampered with by Mr Jones, or some of his friends. 
He said, blood required blood ; and that not only all who 
concealed a murderer, but those who omitted anything in 
their power to bring him to justice, were sharers in his 
guilt. He said, he found you was very desirous of having 
the villain brought to justice, though it was not proper you 
should appear in it.” 

“He did so?” says Allworthy. 

“Yes, sir,” cries Dowling; “I should not, I am sure, have 
proceeded such lengths for the sake of any other person living 
but your worship.” 

“What lengths, sir?” said Allworthy. 

“Nay, sir,” cries Dowling, “I would not have your worship 
think I would, on any account, be guilty of subornation of 
perjury; but there are tw r o ways of delivering evidence. I told 
them, therefore, that if any offers should be made them on the 
other side, they should refuse them, and that they might be 
assured they should lose nothing by being honest men, and tell- 
ing the truth. I said, we were told that Mr Jones had as- 
saulted the gentleman first, and that, if that was the truth, 
they should declare it;' and I did give them some hints that they 
should be no losers.” 

“I think you went lengths indeed,” cries Allworthy. 

“Nay, sir,” answered Dowling, “I am sure I did not desire 

them to tell an untruth; nor should I have said what I 

did, unless it had been to oblige you.” 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


428 

“You would not have thought, I believe,” says Allworthy, 
“to have obliged me, had you known that this Mr Jones was 
my own nephew.” 

“I am sure, sir,” answered he, “it did not become me to take 
any notice of what I thought you desired to conceal.” 

“How!” cries Allworthy, “and did you know it then?” 

“Nay, sir,” answered Dowling, “if your worship bids me 
speak the truth, I am sure I shall do it. — Indeed, sir, I did 
know it; for they were almost the last words which Madam 
Blifil ever spoke, which she mentioned to me as I stood alone 
by her bedside, when she delivered me the letter I brought your 
worship from her.” 

“What letter?” cries Allworthy. 

“The letter, sir,” answered Dowling, “which I brought from 
Salisbury, and which I delivered into the hands of Mr Blifil.” 

“O heavens!” cries Allworthy: “Well, and what were the 
words? What did my sister say to you?” 

“She took me by the hand,” answered he, “and, as she de- 
livered me the letter, said, ‘I scarce know what I have written. 
Tell my brother, Mr Jones is his nephew — He is my son. — 
Bless him,’ says she, and then fell backward, as if dying away. 
I presently called in the people, and she never spoke more to 
me, and died within a few minutes afterwards.” 

Allworthy stood a minute silent, lifting up his eyes; and 
then, turning to Dowling, said, “How came you, sir, not to 
deliver me this message?” 

“Your worship,” answered he, “must remember that you 
was at that time ill in bed; and, being in a violent hurry, as 
indeed I always am, I delivered the letter and message to Mr 
Blifil, who told me he would carry them both to you, which 
he hath since told me he did, and that your worship, partly 
out of friendship to Mr Jones, and partly out of regard to your 
sister, would never have it mentioned, and did intend to con- 
ceal it from the world ; and therefore, sir, if you had not men- 
tioned it to me first, I am certain I should never have thought 
it belonged to me to say anything of the matter, either to your 
worship or any other person.” 

Allworthy appeared well satisfied with this relation, and, 
having enjoined on Dowling strict silence as to what had past, 
conducted that gentleman himself to the door, lest he should 
see Blifil, who was returned to his chamber, where he exulted 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


429 

in the thoughts of his last deceit on his uncle, and little sus- 
pected what had since passed below-stairs. 

As Allworthy was returning to his room he met Mrs Miller 
in the entry, who, with a face all pale and full of terror, said 
to him, “O ! sir, I find this wicked woman hath been with you, 
and you know all ; yet do not on this account abandon the poor 
young man. Consider, sir, he was ignorant it was his own 
mother; and the discovery itself will most probably break his 
heart, without your unkindness.” 

“Madam,” says Allworthy, “I am under such an astonish- 
ment at what I have heard, that I am really unable to satisfy 
you; but come with me into my room. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I 
have made surprizing discoveries, and you shall soon know 

them. ” 

The poor woman followed him trembling; and now All- 
worthy, going up to Mrs Waters, took her by the hand, and 

then, turning to Mrs Miller, said, “What reward shall I be- 
stow upon this gentlewoman, for the services she hath done 
me? — O! Mrs Miller, you have a thousand times heard me 
call the young man to whom you are so faithful a friend my 
son. Little did I then think he was indeed related to me at 
all. — Your friend, madam, is my nephew; he is the brother of 
that wicked viper which I have so long nourished in my bosom. 
— She will herself tell you the whole story, and how the youth 
came to pass for her son. Indeed, Mrs Miller, I am convinced 
that he hath been wronged, and that I have been abused ; 
abused by one whom you too justly suspected of being a vil- 
lain. He is, in truth, the worst of villains.” 

The joy which Mrs Miller now felt bereft her of the power 
of speech, and might perhaps have deprived her of her senses, 
if not of life, had not a friendly shower of tears come season- 
ably to her relief. At length, recovering so far from her trans- 
port as to be able to speak, she cried, “And is my dear Mr 
Jones then your nephew, sir, and not the son of this lady? 
And are your eyes opened to him at last? And shall I live to 
see him as happy as he deserves?” 

“He certainly is my nephew,” says Allworthy, “and I hope 
all the rest.” 

“And is this the dear good woman, the person,” cries she, 
“to whom all this discovery is owing?” 

“She is indeed,” says Allworthy. 

“Why, then,” cried Mrs Miller, upon her knees, “may 


430 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


Heaven shower down its choicest blessings upon her head, and 
for this one good action forgive her all her sins, be they never 
so many!” 

Mrs Waters then informed them that she believed Jones 
would very shortly be released ; for that the surgeon was gone 
to the justice who committed him, in order to certify that Mr 
Fitzpatrick was out of all manner of danger, and to procure 
his prisoner his liberty. 

Allworthy said he should be glad to find his nephew there 
at his return home ; but that he was then obliged to go on some 
business of consequence. Fie then called to a servant to fetch 
him a chair, and presently left the two ladies together. 

Mr Blifil hearing the chair ordered, came downstairs to at- 
tend upon his uncle; for he never was deficient in such acts of 
duty. He asked his uncle if he was going out, which is a civil 
way of asking a man whither he is going; to which the other 
making no answer, he again desired to know when he would 
be pleased to return? 

All worthy made no answer to this neither, till he was just 
going into his chair, and then, turning about, he said — “Harkee, 
sir, do you find out, before my return, the letter which your 
mother sent me on her death-bed.” Allworthy then departed, 
and left Blifil in a situation to be envied only by a man who is 
just going to be hanged. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

TV herein the history begins to draw towards a conclusion. 

WORTHY took an opportunity, whilst he was in 
the chair, of reading the letter from Jones to Sophia, 
which Western delivered him; and there were some expressions 
in it concerning himself which drew tears from his eyes. At 
length he arrived at Mr Western’s, and was introduced to 
Sophia. 

When the first ceremonies were past, and the gentleman and 
lady had taken their chairs, a silence of some minutes ensued; 
during which the latter, who had been prepared for the visit 
by her father, sat playing with her fan, and had every mark 
of confusion both in her countenance and behaviour. At 
length Allworthy, who was himself a little disconcerted, began 
thus : 

“I am afraid, Miss Western, my family hath been the occasion 
of giving you some uneasiness.” 

“Sir,” said Sophia, with a little modest hesitation, “it hath, 
indeed, given me great uneasiness, and hath been the occasion 
of my suffering much cruel treatment from a father who was, 
till that unhappy affair, the tenderest and fondest of all 
parents. I am convinced, sir, you are too good and generous 
to resent my refusal of your nephew. Our inclinations are not 
in our own power; and whatever may be his merit, I cannot 
force them in his favour. If I had married Mr Blifil ” 

“Pardon my interrupting you, madam,” answered Allworthy, 
“but I cannot bear the suppositiorf. — Believe me, Miss Western, 

I rejoice from my heart, I rejoice in your escape. 1 have 

discovered the wretch for whom you have suffered all this cruel 
violence from your father to be a villain.” 

“How, sir!” cries Sophia — “you must believe this surprizes 
me.” 

“It hath surprized me, madam,” answered Allworthy, “and 
so it will the world. But I have acquainted you with the real 
truth. You will soon enough hear the story; at present let us 
not mention so detested a name. — I have another matter of a 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


432 

very serious nature to propose. — O ! Miss Western, I know your 
vast worth, nor can I so easily part with the ambition of being 
allied to it. — I have a near relation, madam, a young man whose 
character is, I am convinced, the very opposite to that of this 
wretch, and whose fortune I will make equal to what his was 
to have been. Could I, madam, hope you would admit a visit 
from him?” 

Sophia, after a minute’s silence, answered, “I will deal with 
the utmost sincerity with Mr Allworthy. His character, and 
the obligation I have just received from him, demand it. I 
have determined at present to listen to no such proposals from 
any person. My only desire is to be restored to the affection 
of my father, and to be again the mistress of his family. This, 
sir, I hope to owe to your good offices. Let me beseech you, 
let me conjure you, by all the goodness which I, and all who 
know you, have experienced, do not, the very moment when 
you have released me from one persecution, do not engage me 
in another as miserable and as fruitless.” 

“Indeed, Miss Western,” replied Allworthy, “I am capable 
of no such conduct ; and if this be your resolution, he must sub- 
mit to the disappointment, whatever torments he may suffer 
under it.” 

“I must smile now, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “when 
you mention the torments of a man whom I do not know, and 
who can consequently have so little acquaintance with me.” 

“Pardon me, dear young lady,” cries Allworthy, “I begin 
now to be afraid he hath had too much acquaintance for the 
repose of his future days; since, if ever man was capable of a 
sincere, violent, and noble passion, such, I am convinced, is my 
unhappy nephew’s for Miss Western.” 

“A nephew of your’s, Mr Allworthy!” answered Sophia. “It 
is surely strange. I never heard of him before.” 

“Indeed, madam,” cries Allworthy, “it is only the circum- 
stance of his being my nephew to which you are a stranger, and 
which, till this day, was a secret to me. — Mr Jones, who has 
long loved you, he! he is my nephew!” 

“Mr Jones your nephew, sir!” cries Sophia, “can it be pos- 
sible?” 

“He is, indeed, madam,” answered Allworthy; “he is my own 
sister’s son — as such I shall always own him ! nor am I ashamed 
of owning him. I am much more ashamed of my past be- 
haviour to him; but I was as ignorant of his merits as of his 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


433 

birth. Indeed, Miss Western, I have used him cruelly In- 

deed I have. I never shall be able to reward him for his suffer- 
ings without your assistance. Believe me, most amiable 

young lady, I must have a great esteem of that offering which 
I make to your worth. I know he hath been guilty of faults; 
but there is great goodness of heart at the bottom. Believe me, 
madam, there is.” 

Here he stopped, seeming to expect an answer, which he 
presently received from Sophia, after she had a little recovered 
herself from the hurry of spirits into which so strange and sud- 
den information had thrown her: “I sincerely wish you joy, sir, 
of a discovery in which you seem to have such satisfaction. I 
doubt not but you will have all the comfort you can promise 
yourself from it. The young gentleman hath certainly a thou- 
sand good qualities, which makes it impossible he should not 
behave well to such an uncle.” 

“I hope, madam,” said Allworthy, “he hath those good qual- 
ities which must make him a good husband. — He must, I am 
sure, be of all men the most abandoned, if a lady of your merit 
should condescend ” 

“You must pardon me, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia; 
“I cannot listen to a proposal of this kind. Mr Jones, I am 
convinced, hath much merit; but I shall never receive Mr Jones 
as one who is to be my husband — Upon my honour I never 
will.” 

“Pardon me, madam,” cries Allworthy, “if I am a little sur- 
prized, after what I have heard from Mr Western 1 hope 

the unhappy young man hath done nothing to forfeit your good 
opinion, if he had ever the honour to enjoy it. — Perhaps, he 
may have been misrepresented to you, as he was to me. The 
same villany may have injured him everywhere. — He is no 
murderer, I assure you ; as he hath been called.” 

“Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “I have told you my 
resolution. I wonder not at what my father hath told you; 
but, whatever his apprehensions or fears have been, if I know 
my heart, I have given no occasion for them; since it hath al- 
ways been a fixed principle with me, never to have married 
without his consent.” 

“I hear you, Miss Western,” cries Allworthy, “with admira- 
tion. I admire the justness of your sentiments; but surely 
there is more in this. I am cautious of offending you, young 
lady; but am I to look on all which I have hitherto heard or 


434 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


seen as a dream only? And have you suffered so much cruelty 
from your father on the account of a man to whom you have 
been always absolutely indifferent?” 

“I beg, Mr Allworthy,” answered Sophia, “you will not in- 
sist on my reasons; — yes, I have suffered indeed; I will not, 

Mr Allworthy, conceal 1 will be very sincere with you — I 

own I had a great opinion of Mr Jones — I believe — I know I 
have suffered for my opinion — Your nephew, sir, hath many 
virtues — he hath great virtues, Mr Allworthy. I question not 
but he will do you honour in the world, and make you happy.” 

“I wish I could make him so, madam,” replied Allworthy; 
“but that I am convinced is only in your power. It is that 
conviction which hath made me so earnest a solicitor in his 
favour.” 

“You are deceived indeed, sir! you are deceived,” said Sophia. 
“I hope not by him. It is sufficient to have deceived me. Mr 
Allworthy, I must insist on being pressed no farther on this sub- 
ject. I should be sorry — nay, I will not injure him in your 
favour. I do not disown my former thoughts; but nothing can 
ever recall them. At present there is not a man upon earth 
whom I would more resolutely reject than Mr Jones; nor 
would the addresses of Mr Blifil himself be less agreeable to 
me.” 

Western had been long impatient for the event of this con- 
ference, and was just now arrived at the door to listen; when, 
having heard the last sentiments of his daughter’s heart, he lost 
all temper, and, bursting open the door in a rage, cried out — 
“It is a lie! It is a d — n’d lie! It is all owing to that d — n’d 
rascal Jones; and if she could get at un, she’d ha un any hour 
of the day.” 

Here Allworthy interposed, and addressing himself to the 
squire with some anger in his look, he said, “Mr Western, you 
have not kept your word with me. You promised to abstain 
from all violence.” 

“Why, so I did,” cries Western, “as long as it was possible; 

but to hear a wench telling such confounded lies Zounds! 

doth she think, if she can make vools of other volk, she can 

make one of me? No, no, I know her better than thee 

dost.” 

“I am sorry to tell you, sir,” answered All worthy, “it doth 
not appear, by your behaviour to this young lady, that you 
know her at all. I ask pardon for what I say: but I think our 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


435 

intimacy, your own desires, and the occasion justify me. She is 
your daughter, Mr Western, and I think she doth honour to 
your name. If I was capable of envy, I should sooner envy 
you on this account than any other man whatever.” 

“Odrabbit it!” cries the squire, “I wish she was thine, with 
all my heart — wouldst soon be glad to be rid of the trouble 
o’ her.” 

“Indeed, my good friend,” answered Allworthy, “you your- 
self are the cause of all the trouble you complain of. Place that 
confidence in the young lady which she so well deserves, and I 
am certain you will be the happiest father on earth.” 

“I confidence in her?” cries the squire. “’Sblood! what con- 
fidence can I place in her, when she won’t do as I would ha’ 
her? Let her gi’ but her consent to marry as I would ha’ her, 
and I’ll place as much confidence in her as wouldst ha’ me.” 

“You have no right, neighbour,” answered Allworthy, “to 
insist on any such consent. A negative voice your daughter 
allows you, and God and nature have thought proper to allow 
you no more.” 

“A negative voice!” cries the squire, “Ay! ay! I’ll show you 
what a negative voice I ha. — Go along, go into your chamber, 
go, you stubborn ” 

“Indeed, Mr Western,” said Allworthy, “indeed you use her 
cruelly — I cannot bear to see this — you shall, you must behave 
to her in a kinder manner. She deserves the best of treatment.” 

“Yes, yes,” said the squire, “I know what she deserves: now 
she’s gone, I’ll shew you what she deserves. See here, sir, here 
is a letter from my cousin, my Lady Bellaston, in which she is 
so kind to gi’ me to understand that the fellow is got out of 
prison again; and here she advises me to take all the care I 
can o’ the wench. Odzookers! neighbour Allworthy, you don’t 
know what it is to govern a daughter.” 

The squire ended his speech with some compliments to his 
own sagacity; and then Allworthy, after a formal preface, ac- 
quainted him with the whole discovery which he had made con- 
cerning Jones, with his anger to Blifil, and with every particular 
which hath been disclosed to the reader in the preceding chap- 
ters. 

Men over-violent in their dispositions are, for the most part, 
as changeable in them. No stfoner then was Western informed 
of Mr Allworthy’s intention to make Jones his heir, than he 
joined heartily with the uncle in every commendation of the 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


436 

nephew, and became as eager for her marriage with Jones as he 
had before been to couple her to Blifil. 

Here Mr All worthy was again forced to interpose, and to 
relate what had passed between him and Sophia, at which he 
testified great surprize. 

The squire was silent a moment, and looked wild with aston- 
ishment at this account. At last he cried out, “Why, what 
can be the meaning of this, neighbour Allworthy? Vond o’ 

un she was, that I’ll be sworn to. Odzookers! I have hit » 

o’t. As sure as a gun I have hit o’ the very right o’t. It’s all 
along o’ zister. The girl hath got a hankering after this son 
of a whore of a lord. I vound ’em together at my cousin my 
Lady Bellaston’s. He hath turned the head o’ her, that’s cer- 
tain — but d — n me if he shall ha her — I’ll ha no lords nor 
courtiers in my vamily.” 

Allworthy now made a long speech, in which he repeated 
his resolution to avoid all violent measures, and very earnestly 
recommended gentle methods to Mr Western, as those by which 
he might be assured of succeeding best with his daughter. He 
then took his leave, and returned back to Mrs Miller, but was 
forced to comply with the earnest entreaties of the squire, in 
promising to bring Mr Jones to visit him that afternoon, that 
he might, as he said, “make all matters up with the young gen- 
tleman.” 

At Mr Allworthy’s departure, Western promised to follow 
his advice in his behaviour to Sophia, saying, “I don’t know 
how ’tis, but d — n me, Allworthy, if you don’t make me always 
do just as you please; and yet I have as good an esteate as you, 
and am in the commission of the peace as well as yourself.” 

When Allworthy reached his lodgings, he heard Mr Jones 
was just arrived before him. He hurried therefore instantly 
into an empty chamber, whither he ordered Mr Jones to be 
brought to him alone. 

It is impossible to conceive a more tender or moving scene 
than the meeting between the uncle and nephew (for Mrs 
Waters, as the reader may well suppose, had at her last visit 
discovered to him the secret of his birth). The first agonies 
of joy which were felt on both sides are indeed beyond my 
power to describe : I shall not therefore attempt it. 

After Allworthy had raised Jones from his feet, where he 
had prostrated himself, and received him into his arms, “O my 
child!” he cried, “how have I been to blame! how have I injured 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


437 


you ! What amends can I ever make you for those unkind, those 
unjust suspicions which I have entertained, and for all the suf- 
ferings they have occasioned to you?” 

“Am I not now made amends?” cries Jones. “Would not 
my sufferings, if they had been ten times greater, have been 
now richly repaid? O my dear uncle, this goodness, this ten- 
derness overpowers, unmans, destroys me.” 

“Indeed, child,” cries Allworthy, “I have used you cruelly.” 

He then explained to him all the treachery of Blifil, and 
again repeated expressions of the utmost concern, for having 
been induced by that treachery to use him so ill. 

A servant now acquainted them that Mr Western was be- 
low-stairs; for his eagerness to see Jones could not wait till 
the afternoon. Upon which Jones, whose eyes were full of 
tears, begged his uncle to entertain Western a few minutes, 
till he a little recovered himself; to which the good man con- 
sented, and, having ordered Mr Western to be shewn into a 
parlour, went down to him. 

Mrs Miller no sooner heard that Jones was alone (for she 
had not yet seen him since his release from prison) than she 
came eagerly into the room, and, advancing towards Jones, 
wished him heartily joy of his new T -found uncle and his happy 
reconciliation ; adding, “I wish I could give you joy on another 
account, my dear child; but anything so inexorable I never 
saw.” 

Jones, with some appearance of surprize, asked her what she 
meant. 

“Why then,” says she, “I have been with your young lady, 
and have explained all matters to her, as they were told to me 
by my son Nightingale. She can have no longer any doubt 
about the letter ; of that I am certain ; for I told her my son 
Nightingale was ready to take his oath, if she pleased, that it 
was all his own invention, and the letter of his inditing. I told 
her the very reason of sending the letter ought to recommend 
you to her the more, as it was all upon her account, and a plain 
proof that you was resolved to quit all your profligacy for the 
future; that you had never been guilty of a single instance of 
infidelity to her since your seeing her in town : l am afraid 
I went too far there ; but Heaven forgive me ! I hope your future 
behaviour will be my justification. I am sure I have said all 
I can ; but all to no purpose. She remains inflexible.” 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


438 

Western, who could no longer be kept out of the room even by 
the authority of Allworthy himself; though this, as we have 
often seen, had a wonderful power over him. 

Western immediately went up to Jones, crying out, “My 
old friend Tom, I am glad to see thee with all my heart! all 
past must be forgotten; I could not intend any affront to thee, 
because, as Allworthy here knows, nay, dost know it thyself, 
I took thee for another person; and where a body means no 
harm, what signifies a hasty word or two? One Christian 
must forget and forgive another.” 

“I hope, sir,” said Jones, “I shall never forget the many ob- 
ligations I have had to you ; but as for any offence towards me, 
I declare I am an utter stranger.” 

“A’t,” says Western, “then give me thy fist; a’t as hearty 
an honest cock as any in the kingdom. Come along with me; 
I’ll carry thee to thy mistress this moment.” 

Here Allw’orthy interposed ; and the squire being unable to 
prevail either with the uncle or nephew, was, after some litiga- 
tion, obliged to consent to delay introducing Jones to Sophia 
till the afternoon ; at which time Allworthy, as well in com- 
passion to Jones as in compliance with the eager desires of 
Western, was prevailed upon to promise to attend at the tea- 
table. 

The conversation which now ensued was pleasant enough; 
and with which, had it happened earlier in our history, we 
would have entertained our reader; but as we have now leisure 
only to attend to what is very material, it? shall suffice to say 
that matters being entirely adjusted as to the afternoon visit, 
Mr Western again returned home. 

And now a message was brought from Mr Blifil, desiring 
to know if his uncle was at leisure that he might wait upon 
him. Allworthy started and turned pale, and then in a more 
passionate tone than I believe he had ever used before, bid the 
servant tell Blifil he knew him not. 

“Consider, dear sir,” cries Jones, in a trembling voice. 

“I have considered,” answered Allworthy, “and you your- 
self shall carry my message to the villain. No one can carry 
him the sentence of his own ruin so properly as the man whose 
ruin he hath so villanously contrived.” 

“Pardon me, dear sir,” said Jones; “a moment’s reflection 
will, I am sure, convince you of the contrary. What might 
perhaps be but justice from another tongue, would from mine 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


439 


be insult; and to whom? — my own brother and your nephew. 
Nor did he use me so barbarously — indeed, that would have 
been more inexcusable than anything he hath done.” 

Mrs Miller entered the room at that moment, and desired 
them both to walk down to dinner in the parlour, where she 
said there were a very happy set of people assembled — being in- 
deed no other than Mr Nightingale and his bride, and his 
cousin Harriet with her bridegroom. 

Allworthy excused himself from dining with the company, 
saying he had ordered some little thing for him and his nephew 
in his own apartment, for that they had much private business 
to discourse of; but could not resist promising the good woman 
that both he and Jones would make part of her society at sup- 
per. 

Mrs Miller then asked what was to be done with Blifil? 
“for indeed,” says she, “I cannot be easy while such a villain is 
in my house.” 

Allworthy answered, he was as uneasy as herself on the same 
account. 

“Oh!” cries she, “if that be the case, leave the matter to me; 
I’ll soon show him the outside out of my doors, I warrant you. 
Here are two or three lusty fellows below-stairs.” 

“There will be no need of any violence,” cries Allworthy; 
“if you will carry him a message from me, he will, I am con- 
vinced, depart of his own accord.” 

“Will I?” said Mrs Miller; “I never did anything in my 
life with a better will.” 

Here Jones interfered, and said, he had considered the mat- 
ter better, and would, if Mr Allworthy pleased, be himself the 
messenger. 

“I know,” says he, “already enough of your pleasure, sir, and 
I beg leave to acquaint him with it by my own words. Let me 
beseech you, sir,” added he, “to reflect on the dreadful conse- 
quences of driving him to violent and sudden despair. How’ 
unfit, alas ! is this poor man to die in his present situation.” 

This suggestion had not the least effect on Mrs Miller, but 
it made a deeper impression on Allworthy. 

“My good child,” said he, “I am equally astonished at the 
goodness of your heart, and the quickness of your understand- 
ing. Go to him, then, and use your own discretion; yet do not 
flatter him with any hopes of my forgiveness.” 

Jones went up to Blifil’s room, whom he found in a situa- 


440 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


tion which moved his pity, though it would have raised a less 
amiable passion in many beholders. He cast himself on his bed, 
where he lay abandoning himself to despair, and drowned in 
tears. It would be unpleasant and tedious to paint this scene 
in full length. Let it suffice to say, that the behaviour of Jones 
was kind to excess. He omitted nothing which his invention 
could supply, to raise and comfort the drooping spirits of Blifil, 
before he communicated to him the resolution of his uncle that 
he must quit the house that evening. He offered to furnish 
him with any money he wanted, assured him of his hearty for- 
giveness of all he had done against him, that he would en- 
deavour to live with him hereafter as a brother, and would 
leave nothing unattempted to effectuate a reconciliation with 
his uncle. 

Blifil was at first sullen and silent, balancing in his mind 
whether he should yet deny all ; but, finding at last the evidence 
too strong against him, he betook himself at last to confession. 
He then asked pardon of his brother in the most vehement man- 
ner, prostrated himself on the ground, and kissed his feet; in 
short he was now as remarkably mean as he had been before 
remarkably wicked. 

Jones could not so far check his disdain, but that it a little 
discovered itself in his countenance at this extreme servility. 
He raised his brother the moment he could from the ground, 
and advised him to bear his afflictions more like a man; repeat- 
ing, at the same time, his promises, that he would do all in 
his power to lessen them; for which Blifil, making many pro- 
fessions of his unworthiness, poured forth a profusion of thanks ; 
and then, he having declared he would immediately depart to 
another lodging, Jones returned to his uncle. 

Among other matters, Allworthy now acquainted Jones with 
the discovery which he had made concerning the £500 bank- 
notes. 

“Good Heaven!” says Jones, “is it possible? — I am shocked 
beyond measure at this news. I thought there was not an 

honester fellow in the world. The temptation of such a 

sum was too great for him to withstand; for smaller matters 
have come safe to me through his hand. Consider, sir, what a 
temptation to a man who hath tasted such bitter distress, it must 
be, to have a sum in his possession which must put him and 
his family beyond any future possibility of suffering the like.” 

“Child,” cries Allworthy, “you carry this forgiving temper 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


44 i 

too far. Such mistaken mercy is not only weakness, but borders 
on injustice, and is very pernicious to society, as it encourages 
vice. I am convinced the fellow is a villain, and he shall be 
punished ; at least as far as I can punish him.” 

This was spoken with so stern a voice, that Jones did not 
think proper to make any reply; besides, the hour appointed 
by Mr Western now drew so near, that he had barely time 
left to dress himself. Here therefore ended the present dialogue, 
and Jones retired to another room, where Partridge attended, 
according to order, with his clothes. 

Partridge had scarce seen his master since the happy dis- 
covery. The poor fellow was unable either to contain or ex- 
press his transports. He behaved like one frantic, and made 
almost as many mistakes while he was dressing Jones as I have 
seen made by Harlequin in dressing himself on the stage. 

His memory, however, was not in the least deficient. He 
recollected now many omens and presages of this happy event, 
some of which he had remarked at the time, but many more 
he now remembered ; nor did he omit the dreams he had dreamt 
the evening before his meeting with Jones; and concluded with 
saying, “I always told your honour something boded in my 
mind that you would one time or other have it in your power 
to make my fortune.” Jones assured him that this boding 
should as certainly be verified with regard to him as all the 
other omens had been to himself; wdiich did not a little add to 
all the raptures which the poor fellow had already conceived 
on account of his master. 


CHAPTER THE LAST. 

In which the history is concluded. 

J ONES, being now completely dressed, attended his uncle 
to Mr Western’s. He was, indeed, one of the finest figures 
ever beheld, and his person alone would have charmed the 
greater part of womankind ; but we hope it hath already ap- 
peared in this history that Nature, when she formed him, did 
not totally rely, as she sometimes doth, on this merit only, to 
recommend her work. 

Sophia, who, angry as she was, was likewise set forth to the 
best advantage, for which I leave my female readers to ac- 
count 2 appeared so extremely beautiful, that even Allworthy, 
when he saw her, could not forbear whispering Western, that 
he believed she was the finest creature in the world. To which 
Western answered, in a whisper, overheard by all present, “So 
much the better for Tom; — for d — n me if he shan’t ha the 
tousling her.” Sophia was all over scarlet at these words, while 
Tom’s countenance was altogether as pale, and he was almost 
ready to sink from his chair. 

The tea-table was scarce removed before Western lugged 
Allworthy out of the room, telling him he had business of 
consequence to impart, and must speak to him that instant in 
private, before he forgot it. 

The lovers were now alone, and it will, I question not, ap- 
pear strange to many readers, that those who had so much to 
say to one another when danger and difficulty attended their 
conversation, and who seemed so eager to rush into each other’s 
arms when so many bars lay in their way, now that with safety 
they were at liberty to say or do whatever they pleased, should 
both remain for some time silent and motionless; but so it was, 
however strange it may seem; both sat with their eyes cast 
downwards on the ground, and for some minutes continued 
in perfect silence. 

Mr Jones during this interval attempted once or twice to 
speak, but was absolutely incapable, muttering only, or rather 
sighing out, some broken words ; when Sophia at length, partly 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


443 

out of pity to him, and partly to turn the discourse from the 
subject which she knew well enough he was endeavouring to 
open, said — 

“Sure, sir, you are the most fortunate man in the world in 
this discovery.” 

“And can you really, madam, think me so fortunate,” said 
Jones, sighing, “while I have incurred your displeasure?” 

“Nay, sir,” says she, “as to that you best know whether you 
have deserved it.” 

“Indeed, madam,” answered he, “you yourself are as well 
apprized of all my demerits. Mrs Miller hath acquainted you 
with the whole truth. O ! my Sophia, am I never to hope for 
forgiveness?” 

“I think, Mr Jones,” said she, “I may almost depend on 
your own justice, and leave it to yourself to pass sentence on 
your own conduct.” 

“Alas! madam,” answered he, “it is mercy, and not justice, 
which I implore at your hands. Justice I know must condemn 
me. — Yet not for the letter I sent to Lady Bellaston. Of that 
I most solemnly declare you have had a true account.” 

“I do not, I cannot,” says she, “believe otherwise of that let- 
ter than you would have me. My conduct, I think, shews you 
clearly I do not believe there is much in that. And yet, Mr 
Jones, have I not enough to resent? After what past at Upton, 
so soon to engage in a new amour with another woman, while 
I fancied, and you pretended, your heart was bleeding for me? 
Indeed, you have acted strangely. Can I believe the passion 
you have profest to me to be sincere? Or, if I can, what happi- 
ness can I assure myself of with a man capable of so much 
inconstancy ?” 

“O! my Sophia,” cries he, “do not doubt the sincerity of the 
purest passion that ever inflamed a human breast. Think, most 
adorable creature, of my unhappy situation, of my despair. O 
Sophia! if you can have goodness enough to pardon what is 
past, do not let any cruel future apprehensions shut your mercy 
against me. No repentance was ever more sincere. O! let it 
reconcile me to my heaven in this dear bosom.” 

“Sincere repentance, Mr Jones,” answered she, “will obtain 
the pardon of a sinner, but it is from one who is a perfect judge 
of that sincerity. A human mind may be imposed on; nor is 
there any infallible method to prevent it. You must expect, 
however, that if I can be prevailed on by your repentance to 


444 THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 

pardon you, I will at least insist on the strongest proof of its 
sincerity.” 

“Name any proof in my power,” answered Jones eagerly. 

“Time,” replied she; “time alone, Mr Jones, can convince me 
that you are a true penitent, and have resolved to abandon 
these vicious courses, which I should detest you for, if I 
imagined you capable of persevering in them.” 

“Do not imagine it,” cries Jones. “On my knees I in- 
treat, I implore your confidence, a confidence which it shall 
be the business of my life to deserve.” 

“Let it then,” said she, “be the business of some part of your 
life to shew me you deserve it. I think I have been explicit 
enough in assuring you, that, when I see you merit my con- 
fidence, you will obtain it. After what is past, sir, can you ex- 
pect I should take you upon your word?” 

“Don’t believe me upon my word,” he replied ; “I have a bet- 
ter security, a pledge for my constancy, which it is impossible to 
see and to doubt.” 

“What is that?” said Sophia, a little surprized. 

“I will show you, my charming angel,” cried Jones, seizing 
her hand and carrying her to the glass. “There, behold it 
there in that lovely figure, in that face, that shape, those eyes, 
that mind which shines through these eyes; can the man who 
shall be in possession of these be inconstant? Impossible! my 
Sophia; they would fix a Dorimant, a Lord Rochester. You 
could not doubt it, if you could see yourself with any eyes but 
your own.” 

Sophia blushed and half smiled ; but, forcing again her brow 
into a frown — “If I am to judge,” said she, “of the future by 
the past, my image will no more remain in your heart when I 
am out of your sight, than it will in this glass when I am out of 
the room.” 

“By heaven, by all that is sacred!” said Jones, “it never was 
out of my heart. The delicacy of your sex cannot conceive 
the grossness of ours, nor how little one sort of amour has to 
do with the heart.” 

“I will never marry a man,” replied Sophia, very gravely, 
“who shall not learn refinement enough to be as incapable as 
I am myself of making such a distinction.” 

“I will learn it,” said Jones. “I have learnt it already. The 
first moment of hope that my Sophia might be my wife taught 
it me at once; and all the rest of her sex from that moment 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


445 

became as little the objects of desire to my sense as of passion 
to my heart.” 

‘ Well,” says Sophia, “the proof of this must be from time. 
Your situation, Mr Jones, is now altered, and I assure you I 
have great satisfaction in the alteration. You will now want 
no opportunity of being near me, and convincing me that your 
mind is altered too.” 

“O! my angel,” cries Jones, “how shall I thank thy good- 
ness ! And are you so good to own that you have a satisfaction 

in my prosperity ? Believe me, believe me, madam, it is you 

alone have given a relish to that prosperity, since I owe to it 

the dear hope O ! my Sophia, let it not be a distant one. — I 

will be all obedience to your commands. I will not dare to 
press anything further than you permit me. Yet let me intreat 
you to appoint a short trial. O! tell me when I may expect 
you will be convinced of what is most solemnly true.” 

“When I have gone voluntarily thus far, Mr Jones,” said 
she, “I expect not to be pressed. Nay, I will not.” 

“O ! don’t look unkindly thus, my Sophia,” cries he. “I do 
not, I dare not press you. — Yet permit me at least once more 
to beg you would fix the period. O ! consider the impatience of 
love.” 

“A twelvemonth, perhaps,” said she. 

“O ! my Sophia,” cries he, “you have named an eternity. 

“Perhaps it may be something sooner,” says she; “I will not 
be teazed. If your passion for me be what I would have it, I 
think you may now be easy.” 

“Easy! Sophia, call not such an exulting happiness as mine 
by so cold a name. O! transporting thought! am I not as- 

sured that the blessed day will come, when I shall call you 
mine; when fears shall be no more; when I shall have that 
dear, that vast, that exquisite, ecstatic delight of making my 
Sophia happy?” 

“Indeed, sir,” said she, “that day is in your own power.” 

“O! my dear, my divine angel,” cried he, “these words have 

made me mad with joy. But I must, I will thank those 

dear lips which have so sweetly pronounced my bliss.” He then 
caught her in his arms, and kissed her with an ardour he had 
never ventured before. 

At this instant Western, who had stood some time listening, 
burst into the room, and, with his hunting voice and phrase, 
cried out, “To her, boy, to her, go to her. That’s it, little 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


446 

honeys, O that’s it! Well! what, is it all over? Hath she ap- 
pointed the day, boy? What, shall it be to-morrow or next 
day? It shan’t be put off a minute longer than next day, I am 
resolved.” 

“Let me beseech you, sir,” says Jones, “don’t let me be the 
occasion ” 

“Beseech mine eye,” cries Western. “I thought thou hadst 
been a lad of higher mettle than to give way to a parcel of 

maidenish tricks. 1 tell thee ’tis all flimflam. Zoodikers! 

she’d have the wedding to-night with all her heart. Would’st 
not, Sophy? Come, confess, and be an honest girl for once. 
What, art dumb? Why dost not speak?” 

“Why should I confess, sir,” says Sophia, “since it seems you 
are so well acquainted with my thoughts?” 

“That’s a good girl,” cries he, “and dost consent then?” 

“No, indeed, sir,” says Sophia, “I have given no such con- 
sent.” 

“And wunt not ha un then to-morrow, nor next day?” says 
Western. 

“Indeed, sir,” says she, “I have no such intention.” 

“But I can tell thee,” replied he, “why hast nut; only be- 
cause thou dost love to be disobedient, and to plague and vex 
thy father.” 

“Pray, sir,” said Jones, interfering 

“I tell thee thou art a puppy,” cries he. “When I vorbid her, 
then it was all nothing but sighing and whining, and languish- 
ing and writing; now I am vor thee, she is against thee. All 
the spirit of contrary, that’s all. She is above being guided and 
governed by her fath that is the whole truth on’t. It is only 
to disoblige and contradict me.” 

“What would my papa have me do?” cries Sophia. 

“What would I ha thee do?” says he, “why, gi’ un thy hand 
this moment.” 

“Well, sir,” says Sophia, “I will obey you. — There is my 
hand, Mr Jones.” 

“Well, and will you consent to ha un to-morrow morning?” 
says Western. 

“I will be obedient to you, sir,” cries she. 

“Why then to-morrow morning be the day,” cries he. 

“Why then to-morrow morning shall be the day, papa, since 
you will have it so,” says Sophia. 

Jones then fell upon his knees, and kissed her hand in an 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


447 

agony of joy, while Western began to caper and dance about 
the room, presently crying out — “Where the devil is Allworthy? 
He is without now, a talking with that d d lawyer Dowl- 

ing, when he should be minding other matters.” 

He then sallied out in quest of him, and very opportunely left 
the lovers to enjoy a few tender minutes alone. 

But he soon returned with Allworthy, saying, “If you won’t 
believe me, you may ask her yourself. Hast nut gin thy con- 
sent, Sophy, to be married to-morrow?” 

“Such are your commands, sir,” cries Sophia, “and I dare 
not be guilty of disobedience.” 

“I hope, madam,” cries Allworthy, “my nephew will merit 
so much goodness, and will be always as sensible as myself of 
the great honour you have done my family. An alliance with 
so charming and so excellent a young lady would indeed be an 
honour to the greatest in England.” 

“Yes,” cries Western, “but if I had suffered her to stand shill 
I, shall I, dilly dally, you might not have had that honour yet 
a while ; I was forced to use a little fatherly authority to bring 
her to.” 

“I hope not, sir,” cries Allworthy, “I hope there is not the 
least constraint.” 

“Why, there,” cries Western, “you may bid her unsay all 
again if you will. Dost repent heartily of thy promise, dost not, 
Sophy?” 

“Indeed, papa,” cries she, “I do not repent, nor do I believe 
I ever shall, of any promise in favour of Mr Jones.” 

“Then, nephew,” cries Allworthy, “I felicitate you most 
heartily; for I think you are the happiest . ? men. And, madam, 
you will give me leave to congratulate you on this joyful occa- 
sion ; indeed, I am convinced you have bestowed yourself on one 
who will be sensible of your great merit, and who will at least 
use his best endeavours to deserve it.” 

“His best endeavours!” cries Western, “that he will, I war- 
rant un. Harkee, Allworthy, I’ll bet thee five pounds to a 

crown we have a boy to-morrow nine months; but prithee tell 
me what wut ha! Wut ha Burgundy, Champaigne, or what? 
for, please Jupiter, we’ll make a night on’t.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said Allworthy, “you must excuse me; both my 
nephew and I were engaged before I suspected this near ap- 
proach of his happiness.” 

“Engaged!” quoth the squire, “never tell me. — I won’t part 


THE HISTORY OF TOM TONES. 


448 

with thee to-night upon any occasion. Shalt sup here, please 
the lord Harry.” 

“You must pardon me, my dear neighbour!” answered All- 
worthy; “I have given a solemn promise, and that you know 
I never break.” 

“Why, prithee, who art engaged to?” cries the squire. 

Allworthy then informed him, as likewise of the company. 

“Odzookers!” answered the squire, “I will go with thee, and so 
shall Sophy! for I won’t part with thee to-night; and it would 
be barbarous to part Tom and the girl.” 

This offer was presently embraced by Allworthy, and Sophia 
consented, having first obtained a private promise from her 
father that he would not mention a syllable concerning her 
marriage. 

Young Nightingale had been that afternoon, by appointment, 
to wait on his father, who received him much more kindly than 
he expected. There likewise he met his uncle, who was re- 
turned to town in quest of his new-married daughter. 

This marriage was the luckiest incident which could have 
happened to the young gentleman; for these brothers lived in 
a constant state of contention about the government of their 
children, both heartily despising the method which each other 
took. Each of them therefore now endeavoured, as much as 
he could, to palliate the offence which his own child had com- 
mitted, and to aggravate the match of the other. This desire 
of triumphing over his brother, added to the many arguments 
which Allworthy had used, so strongly operated on the old 
gentleman that he met his son with a smiling countenance, and 
actually agreed to sup with him that evening at Mrs Miller’s. 

In this situation were affairs when Mr Allworthy and his 
company arrived to complete the happiness of Mrs Miller, who 
no sooner saw Sophia than she guessed everything that had hap- 
pened; and so great was her friendship to Jones, that it added 
not a few transports to those she felt on the happiness of her 
own daughter. 

The brides were both very pretty women; but so totally 
were they eclipsed by the beauty of Sophia, that, had they not 
been two of the best-tempered girls in the world, it would have 
raised some envy in their breasts; for neither of their husbands 
could long keep his eyes from Sophia, who sat at the table like 
a queen receiving homage, or, rather, like a superior being 
receiving adoration from all around her. 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


449 


The evening was spent in much true mirth. All were happy, 
but those the most who had been most unhappy before. Their 
former sufferings and fears gave such a relish to their felicity 
as even love and fortune, in their fullest flow, could not have 
given without the advantage of such a comparison. Yet, as 
great joy, especially after a sudden change and revolution of 
circumstances, is apt to be silent, and dwells rather in the heart 
than on the tongue, Jones and Sophia appeared the least merry 
of the whole company; which Western observed with great 
impatience, often crying out to them, “Why dost not talk, boy? 
Why dost look so grave? Hast lost thy tongue, girl? Drink 
another glass of wine; sha’t drink another glass.” 

And, the more to enliven her, he would sometimes 
sing a merry song, which bore some relation to the 
joys of matrimony. Nay, he would have proceeded so far on 
that topic as to have driven her out of the room, if Mr All- 
worthy had not checkt him, sometimes by looks, and once or 
twice by a “Fie! Mr Western!” He began, indeed, once to 
debate the matter, and assert his right to talk to his own 
daughter as he thought fit ; but, as nobody seconded him, he was 
soon reduced to order. 

Notwithstanding this little restraint, he was so pleased with 
the chearfulness and good-humour of the company, that he in- 
sisted on their meeting the next day at his lodgings. They all 
did so; and the lovely Sophia, who was now in private become 
a bride too, officiated as the mistress of the ceremonies, or, in 
the polite phrase, did the honours of the table. She had that 
morning given her hand to Jones, in the chapel at Doctors’ 
Commons, where Mr Allworthy, Mr Western, and Mrs Mil- 
ler, were the only persons present. 

Sophia had earnestly desired her father that no others of the 
company, who were that day to dine with him, should be ac- 
quainted with her marriage. The same secrecy was enjoined to 
Mrs Miller, and Jones undertook for Allworthy. This some- 
what reconciled the delicacy of Sophia to the public entertain- 
ment which, in compliance with her father’s will, she was 
obliged to go to, greatly against her own inclinations. In con- 
fidence of this secrecy she went through the day pretty well, 
till the squire, who was now advanced into the second bottle, 
could contain his joy no longer, but, filling out a bumper, drank 
a health to the bride. The health was immediately pledged by 
all present, to the great confusion of our poor blushing Sophia, 


450 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES . 


and the great concern of Jones upon her account. To say 
truth, there was not a person present made wiser by this dis- 
covery; for Mrs Miller had whispered it to her daughter, her 
daughter to her husband, her husband to his sister, and she to all 
the rest. 

Sophia now took the first opportunity of withdrawing with 
the ladies, and the squire sat in to his cups, in which he was, 
by degrees, deserted by all the company except the uncle of 
young Nightingale, who loved his bottle as w r ell as Western 
himself. These two, therefore, sat stoutly to it during the 
whole evening, and long after that happy hour which had sur- 
rendered the charming Sophia to the eager arms of her en- 
raptured Jones. 

Thus, reader, we have at length brought our history to a 
conclusion, in which, to our great pleasure, though contrary, 
perhaps to thy expectations, Mr Jones appears to be the hap- 
piest of all humankind; for what happiness this world affords 
equal to the possession of such a woman as Sophia, I sincerely 
own I have never yet discovered. 

As to the other persons who have made any considerable 
figure in this history, as some may desire to know a little more 
concerning them, we will proceed, in as few words as possible, 
to satisfy their curiosity. 

Allworthy hath never yet been prevailed upon to see Blifil, 
but he hath yielded to the importunity of Jones, backed by 
Sophia, to settle £200 a-year upon him; to which Jones hath 
privately added a third. Upon this income he lives in one of 
the northern counties, about 200 miles distant from London, 
and lays up £200 a-year out of it, in order to purchase a seat in 
the next parliament from a neighbouring borough, which he has 
bargained for with an attorney there. He is also lately turned 
Methodist, in hopes of marrying a very rich widow of that sect, 
whose estate lies in that part of the kingdom. 

Square died soon after he writ the before-mentioned letter; 
and as to Thwackum, he continues at his vicarage. He hath 
made many fruitless attempts to regain the confidence of All- 
worthy, or to ingratiate himself with Jones, both of whom he 
flatters to their faces, and abuses behind their backs. But in 
his stead, Mr Allworthy hath lately taken Mr Abraham Adams 
into his house, of whom Sophia is grown immoderately fond, 
and declares he shall have the tuition of her children. 

Mrs Fitzpatrick is separated from her husband, and retains 


THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 


451 

the little remains of her fortune. She lives in reputation at the 
polite end of the town, and is so good an economist, that she 
spends three times the income of her fortune, without running 
in debt. She maintains a perfect intimacy with the lady of the 
Irish peer; and in acts of friendship to her repays all the obli- 
gations she owes to her husband. 

‘ Mrs Western was soon reconciled to her niece Sophia, and 
hath spent two months together with her in the country. Lady 
Bellaston made the latter a formal visit at her return to town, 
where she behaved to Jones as to a perfect stranger, and, with 
great civility, wished him joy on his marriage. 

Mr Nightingale hath purchased an estate for his son in the 
neighborhood of Jones, where the young gentleman, his lady, 
Mrs Miller, and her little daughter reside, and the most agree- 
able intercourse subsists between the two families. 

As to those of lower account, Mrs Waters returned into 
the country, had a pension of £60 a-year settled upon her by 
Mr Allworthy, and is married to Parson Supple, on whom, at 
the instance of Sophia, Western hath bestowed a considerable 
living. 

Black George, hearing the discovery that had been made, ran 
away, and was never since heard of; and Jones bestowed the 
money on his family, but not in equal proportions, for Molly 
had much the greatest share. 

As for Partridge, Jones hath settled £50 a-year on him; and 
he hath again set up a school, in which he meets with much 
better encouragement than formerly, and there is now a treaty 
of marriage on foot between him and Miss Molly Seagrim, 
which, through the mediation of Sophia, is likely to take effect. 

We now return to take leave of Mr Jones and Sophia, who, 
within two days after their marriage, attended Mr Western 
and Mr All worthy into the country. Western hath resigned 
his family seat, and the greater part of his estate, to his son-in- 
law, and hath retired to a lesser house of his in another part of 
the country, which is better for hunting. Indeed, he is often 
as a visitant with Mr Jones, who, as well as his daughter, hath 
an infinite delight in doing everything in their power to please 
him. And this desire of theirs is attended with such success, 
that the old gentleman declares he was never happy in his life 
till now. He hath here a parlour and ante-chamber to him- 
self, where he gets drunk with whom he pleases: and his 


13 • 

THE HISTORY OF TOM JONES. 




452 


daughter is still as ready as formerly to play to him whenever 
he desires it. - 

Sophia hath already produced her husband two fine children, 
a boy and a girl, of whom the old gentleman is so fond, that he 
spends much of his time in the nursery, where he declares the 
tattling of his little grand-daughter, who is above a year and a 
half old, is sweeter music than the finest cry of dogs in Eng- 


land. 


All worthy was likewise greatly liberal to Jones on the mar- 
riage, and hath omitted no instance of shewing his affection 
to him and his lady, who love him as a father. Whatever in < 
the nature of Jones had a tendency to vice, has been corrected 
by continual conversation with this good man, and by his union 
with the lovely and virtuous Sophia. He hath also, by reflec- 1 
tion on his past follies, acquired a discretion and prudence very i 
uncommon in one of his lively parts. 

To conclude, as there are not to be found a worthier man 
and woman, than this fond couple, so neither can any be 
imagined more happy. They preserve the purest and tenderest ] 
affection for each other, an affection daily increased and con- . 
firmed by mutual endearments and mutual esteem. Nor is their j 
conduct towards their relations and friends less amiable thai^ j 
towards one another. And such is their condescension, their 
indulgence, and their beneficence to those below them, that there I 
is not a neighbour, a tenant, or a servant, who doth not most I 
gratefully bless the day when Mr Jones was married to his I 
Sophia. 


THE END. 




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